


You Only Live Twice (Unless You're Facebook. Then You Live Forever)

by lawofgravity (smiles)



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 99,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiles/pseuds/lawofgravity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he signs the nondisclosure agreement, Eduardo Saverin disappears off the face of the earth. Because he joins the CIA. He embraces the life of Super Secret Agent Man Eduardo Saverin. That is, until Facebook is threatened by terrorist plots and only Eduardo can save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A long, long time ago, I found a prompt on the TSN kinkmeme and I wrote this as a fill. How it got so big, I don't even know. I always meant to post it to AO3 but I never got around to it. Recently I had a few people ask for me to put it up again. And while there are things I cringe at reading now (WHY SO MANY RUN ON SENTENCES AND PARENTHESES???), it was an adventure I'm proud of. So here it is, the TSN spy au.

The first time Eduardo is approached by the CIA, he doesn’t realize who they truly are straight away (at least, he thinks it’s the first time they’ve approached him. He’s not so sure now that he thinks about it). It was an older man he bumped into at his favorite coffee joint. He had seen him before—grey hair going white, a dazzling smile, and a strong physique that gave the impression he played football or basketball or soccer or some kind of sport when he was younger—but never took any special notice of him. He always ordered a vanilla cappuccino with extra foam, until his even-toned ordering became part of Eduardo’s background noise in the morning. He was familiar enough to be safe but strange enough that no one would not have been able to describe him (the mark of a true professional, Eduardo learns much later).

But that morning he and the Man From the CIA (who Eduardo would later refer to as “Ned” in his mind. Because no, he doesn’t read Nancy Drew but if he did—and really, he doesn’t, honestly—the man is the physical embodiment of Ned Nickerson. Not that Eduardo would know; he doesn’t read Nancy Drew) ran into each other while getting in line. Their polite civilities over who should go first gradually led them into a conversation and then an offer that Eduardo was not quite sure he even had a chance to refuse.

They discuss safe topics at first—the economy, Eduardo’s dislike of Boston weather, some made-up story about Ned’s daughter’s prom disaster. By the end of it, Eduardo feels a little warm and fuzzy inside, like he found a favorite uncle or godfather or something nice like that. He should have figured out then that good old Ned wanted something from him (because his sense of trust is off and everyone wants something from him until they don’t and then they just throw him away because obviously he felt more in that connection than they did). So when Ned starts his spiel about what do you want to do with your life, and traveling the world, and being able to be a different person, and all the good he could do, he could really make a difference, Eduardo schools his features into neutrality and only half-listens.

“We’ve been watching you for a long time,” Ned finishes, taking another sip from his now-cool vanilla cappuccino. “You have talent. We want you.” He smiles and spreads his hands across the table. “You’re already approved.”

Eduardo waits until he’s sure Ned is done before answering. “Thanks for the offer,” he begins (because no one ever told him the proper protocol when one turns down an offer from the freaking CIA, but he mother taught him to always say “please” and “thank you”), “but I’m really not interested.”

“Uh-huh. And what are you interested in? A starting position at some nameless company lost in New York somewhere, working your way up the company slowly, ignoring the whispers about what happened to you when you had so much potential? No, you want more. You’ve tasted what life can be like when you’re at the top.”

Ned’s right, but he doesn’t want to admit it. “Why would the CIA want me?”

“You co-founded Facebook. A bit extraordinary, don’t you think?”

He feels a pang of anger because he’s more than Facebook, Facebook is a source of hurt and trouble and people who you thought were friends but push you out for some slimy bastard in an Armani jacket. “Why aren’t you recruiting Mark?” he spits out, more than a little irrationally jealous even if he will never acknowledge that.

“We don’t want Mark.”

This strikes him as odd, since Mark is a genius and brilliant and cold enough to make an excellent spy. “Why not?”

“Mark is grounded. Mark is established. Mark has his whole life to look forward to. You,” Ned leans forward and the first genuine smile Eduardo has seen him sport spreads across his face, “you don’t. You’re connected but free, you have no company to run, no people to look after. You have nothing to lose.”

And that, despite being slightly offensive (he prays it was despite, not because; he has enough issues to deal with, thank you very much), compels him to extend his hand and say, “When do I start?”

&&&

Eduardo goes through basic training, Special Ops training, mind-resistance training, and some training that’s so classified he was never told the name of it (but they still ran him through the drills and pushed him to his breaking point and probably messed with his mind but at least he’s stronger for it). His body was never really meant for bulk or super strength but (after countless nights controlling his breathing so his muscles don’t sting unbearably _by just laying there_ ) he does notice abs that are more defined, and his arms and thighs grow a bit thicker. It feels almost like he became a super hero overnight, and he can’t help but spend an extra few minutes in front of the mirror every morning (he’s a little vain and he never really saw a problem with that, okay?).

He learns how to shoot a gun (pistols and rifles and even a machine gun – which is not as fun as the movies would have you believe), and learns how to fashion a weapon out of a ball point pen (which is much _more_ fun than the movies would have you believe). He hardly recognizes himself anymore, which he supposes is a good thing. No longer is he the Eduardo Saverin of his youth. He’s stronger, more agile, and most importantly, he’s no longer naïve. He can almost forget those years (years of laughing and drunken nights and celebratory highs and Mark’s rare but oh-so-breathtaking smile that will always be etched into the dark corners of his memories).

They finally decide he’s ready for the field and they send him to Singapore to set up a cover. He tells his parents and his friends that it’s a fantastic opportunity and while there are a few tears (from his mother) but no one tries to stop him. On the flight over, he ponders how easy it was to extract himself from his life as Eduardo Saverin. It’s a little insulting, really. In fact, the most heartfelt goodbye he received was from Dustin of all people, leaving him a drunken voice mail the night before.

_“Wardo, Wardo, Waaaaardo. Why…WHY ARE YOU LEAVING, MAN? WARDOOOOOOO. ‘S IT ‘CAUSE YOU LIKE ASIAN GIRLS? WE GOT A LOT HERE, COME LIVE HERE. WARDOOOO.”_

_“Dustin, how did you find the phone?” Chris’s voice was tinny and small in the background._

_“SHHHH. YOU DON’T GET TO TALK TO ME, YOU HID MY PHONES. SSSSSSS. PLURAL. I HATE YOU. I ONLY LOVE WARDO.” He giggled. “WARDO. THAT’S A FUNNY NAME. WAAAARDOOOOO.”_

_A shuffle and lots of banging later, Chris’s voice came onto the message. “Um, hi, Eduardo. Sorry, Dustin’s a bit drunk right now. Um, have a good flight tomorrow. Sorry.” He paused before saying quickly, “We’ll miss you.”_

Eduardo saves the message permanently.

&&&

His first assignments are small and seemingly meaningless. He almost feels like a gofer. All he does is watch people and report their (really excruciatingly boring) comings and goings. He becomes agitated over the months, though the trips (to Pakistan, Germany, Belize, Tibet) help to keep his mind active. He feels duped yet again (will he ever learn to never take what people say at face value?), because instead of working in a starting position at some nameless company and slowly working his way up the ranks, he’s working in a starting position in some company he can’t tell anyone about and he sees no room for him to actually work his way up the ranks. (Which really sucks, because when his mind isn’t challenged, he has too much time to think. To think about how he wound up here and what Mark would think if he knew he was a spy. And then his thoughts turn angry because okay, maybe he isn’t over it just yet.)

Still, he finds ways to amuse himself (like humming the _Mission Impossible_ theme song to himself and maybe kind of sometimes breaking in and “borrowing” documents from the targets when he wasn’t _exactly_ authorized to do so). And he finds himself enjoying it at some level, even when he knows he can do so much more.

That is, until they send him to Peru as a background intelligence agent (his job is to watch a certain mistress of a certain assistant to a certain manager of a division that works for the head of a drug ring. Or something). The mission is compromised and he hears frantic calls to retreat from his ear piece (the lead agent has been shot, the secondary has been captured). He makes a face because he dislikes failing at anything, and the whole mission is a bust now. He starts to pack up his equipment when he sees a small dark car with tinted windows and too much chrome on the hub caps pull up to his target’s house. The target, long hair loose and dressed in a silky robe, runs out and meets the individual in the car. They converse for a couple minutes before the car door opens and, to his shock, it’s the drug lord. The mistress ushers him into her abode, checking behind her for spies or gawkers (futilely, because he’s right there, documenting the whole thing with his expensive camera).

And that is when Eduardo does something he and everyone around him would think out of character (but some wouldn’t. Mark would think it was a logical progression, because Mark always saw something in Eduardo that he never saw himself). It is a stupid and completely insane risk, but he rips out his ear piece, stomping it out with his foot, before hunkering down to wait. Because as much as he likes to take cautious, well-thought out risks, he hates to lose, and he’s used to facing his battles alone.

When the mistress emerges later that afternoon for her daily jog, Eduardo happens to be walking in the opposite direction, appearing lost and confused (his face lends him more than enough help here. He’s never been so happy for his large eyes). He stops her for directions, strikes up a conversation, complete with a shy blush and a dazzling smile. He supposes he looks attractive but unthreatening, because she takes him arm and writes her name, phone number, and email with a ball point pen (the same kind of pen he could use to kill her in under twenty seconds).

His case manager is going insane and sending threatening emails (because he won’t answer his phone), with words like “reprimand” and “eliminate” and eventually “high treason” but Eduardo is soaring and his mind is finally, _finally_ engaged. He’s created an entirely new persona—a young Ivy League graduate who’s a little shy but brilliant and eager to earn as much money as quickly as possible, no matter the legality of it. The mistress introduces him to the drug lord within two weeks. He has his hands on the information he needs to take the ring down within four months.

His case manager buys him a BMW and Eduardo is promoted to secondary field agent with a team of his own.

He doesn’t think about Facebook or Dustin or Chris or _Mark_. He rarely even thinks about Eduardo Saverin.

He’s not just surviving now. Now he thrives.

&&&

He is part of a five person team. The primary agent is Luke Walker and Eduardo has to restrain himself from making _Star Wars_ jokes (but sometimes he can’t help it and he tells Luke to _use the force_ when they’re in a difficult situation. Luke is annoyingly unamused). As primary agent, Luke is the one who deals directly with the targets and is in the most peril (fitting for a Jedi Knight). He is also team leader and is supposed to bring everyone together, though he generally does not do a very good job of it. The team has taken it upon themselves to build comradery through late night binge drinking while watching really awful television.

The team has two computer analysts—Dave and Sabrina. Dave is a whiz kid just the right side of legal, with thick glasses and a small voice. He fits the stereotype of a nerd living in his mother’s basement (except this nerd lives abroad and is a freaking spy for the CIA). Eduardo takes a liking to him and tries to draw him out of his shell whenever possible. Sabrina, on the other hand, is strong, confident, dangerously sharp, and scathing in her retorts. She makes sure people know when she is upset and when they screwed up she will and does give them a verbal beat down (and occasionally a physical one too). Eduardo finds himself vaguely attracted to her. He tells himself and anyone who bothers to ask that she’s his type (short, Asian, killer body). It has nothing to do with her witty remarks and the condescending, biting tone that seems to be a default setting in her voice. (Really, that has nothing to do with it.)

Yolanda is the team’s engineer. She builds whatever they need on site out of whatever they can provide her. She’s resourceful, optimistic, and always quick to smile. She’s also a bit oblivious to people and events around her and Eduardo sometimes wonders how she ever made it into the CIA (but knowing her, she probably stumbled through the doors and just stuck around until they sent her on a mission).

As the secondary agent, Eduardo trails Luke and provides whatever help he can. He follows the high ranked persons around their primary target. He gets to break in and steal documents or plant bugs (now completely authorized). He finds himself so engrossed in his roles that he forgets to think about his old life—to the point that he believes he’s gotten over what happened. He can look back with a bit of nostalgia, and maybe even he doesn’t want to kill Sean Parker anymore (okay, that he knows is a lie, but the rest of it is true). But life is pretty freaking amazing and he’s not sure he would even be here if it wasn’t for what he went through.

He tries to remember why he loves his life so much when he gets shot on an assignment in Portugal. There’s searing pain all through his body and he’s crumbled onto the ground. He had seen blood everywhere but now his vision is all blurry and hazy and he’s not quite sure if the world hasn’t actually turned to various hues of red. He manages to fire his weapon from the ground, effectively immobilizing his enemy (he wonders if he killed the man. He wants to have killed at least one person before he dies. What kind of spy would he be otherwise?).

“I’m down,” he rasps into his headset. “I’m dying. I’m dying, shit!” There’s so much pain and he can’t think straight anymore and he’s cursing Ned, the bastard. He started this whole stupid thing.

Dave and Sabrina are frantically trying to calm him down, to pinpoint his location and he can hear Sabrina yelling through the static in his earpiece, “Where the _fuck_ is Luke? Luke, you motherfucker! Eduardo, I swear I will kill you if you die.”

Yolanda simply demands his coordinates before there is silence on her end.

He tries to smile but he doesn’t quite manage. He groans instead and focuses on keeping his eyes open (because he thinks they taught him that in his training. Or maybe it was something he saw in a movie). He’s going to die. He knows this with one hundred percent certainty. There’s no way all this pain could not mean imminent death. He thinks of all his regrets and of course there’s only one affair he can dredge up. He wonders if he should forgive it completely or hang onto all the hurt and haunt Mark for eternity.

Eternity doesn’t sound too bad.

And then he feels firm hands on his body and an intense amplification at the source of his pain when palms press there. He can hear a woman that sounds like Yolanda telling him it’s all going to be okay (which, no, he’s _dying_ , can’t she understand that?). He tries to tell her but all he hears is some mumbling.

Then he stops trying to make sense of anything and just thinks about who was going to attend his funeral and how the hell they were going to explain this to his mother.

&&&

So apparently he didn’t die. He wakes up in a king-size bed with fluffy pillows and the thickest comforter he’s ever seen in his life. The room is dim but some rays of sunlight sneak through the curtains and onto the floor and highlight the cream color of the bed. He starts to move only to find his right shoulder is bandaged and incredibly sore. He lets out a little whimper in protest (which he will always deny).

“He’s awake,” a male voice says quietly from the side of his bed. He turns his head because it hurts less than turning his body. He squints a bit before Dave comes into clear view, the boy’s face sick with worry. He smiles at the analyst.

“What happened?” he asks, voice a little rough but strong and he feels relieved for it.

Before Dave has a chance to answer, a pillow hits Eduardo squarely in the face with more force than he thought the feathery concoctions could muster. He stays perfectly still, allowing the pillow to follow gravity and land softly in his lap. He blinks several times. “What the hell?”

Sabrina stands with her arms crossed at the foot of his bed, a stormy expression on her face. “You said you were dying.”

“And you’re mad I didn’t follow through? I think you’re swell too,” he ends sarcastically.

“The bullet didn’t even hit an artery. You got hit in the shoulder. What kind of agent are you?”

“Hey! It could have easily been my heart!”

“On your _right side_?” She’s glaring at him, annoyed and frightening.

Eduardo has the decency to look sheepish. “It hurt. I dunno.”

“Pathetic.”

Before Eduardo can flash back to how pathetic he is, how weak, how unprepared, Yolanda chirps from the window, “What Sabrina means is that we’re glad you’re alive but maybe next time you could not be so overly dramatic?”

“I wasn’t overly dramatic,” he pouts. “I think I had just the right amount of drama.”

This draws a laugh from Dave and Eduardo breathes a little easier because he doesn’t want to be the reason why the boy has so many dark circles under his eyes (it already looks like he’s ready to charge a football field). They fill him in on what happened (they retrieved his target and no, he’s not a murderer just yet but give it some time, they’re sure he can put that license to kill to good use someday). They lost the main target though.

“Where’s Luke?” Eduardo finally asks, noting the absence of their supposed team leader.

Sabrina shares a look with Yolanda, and then with Dave. Finally she says, “We’re no longer working with him.” Her eyes look murderous but before he can muster up the courage to press for more information, she tugs on Dave’s arm. “Come on, we have a meeting with the director.”

The analysts leave, shutting the door quietly behind them. Eduardo turns to Yolanda and raises his eyebrows expectantly. She rolls her eyes but smiles and pounces on the bed, sidling up to him and stealing several pillows.

“Where’s Luke?” he repeats.

“Luke defected.” She sighs and snuggles into the pillows, her hair in a chaotic mess and tickling Eduardo’s cheek. He swats it down as she continues. “He was an asshole anyway.”

He can’t say he’s surprised. He actively expects people to leave or throw him away. He’s not really torn up about it. Yolanda’s right, Luke was an asshole (a real asshole, not one that you just call an asshole because you’re hurt and want to hurt him back and maybe he doesn’t understand emotions but he speaks English, he should understand that). “Where did he defect to?”

“Mongolia. Or Bolivia. Or Russia. Actually I have no idea.” He laughs a little to himself because that’s just so Yolanda, until she asks, “Who’s Mark?”

He chokes on his own breath and ends up coughing for a good minute. Yolanda smacks his back and he nods his thanks to her. When he calms down, she repeats her question, eyes now wholly intrigued instead of vaguely curious. He berates himself for being caught off guard because now he can’t brush it off. “W-why do you ask?”

“Because you were babbling about him when you were ‘dying’,” she uses air quotes for the last word. “A brother? A friend?” She snuggles closer to his side, eyes dancing with excitement. “A lover?”

He clears his throat and nudges her with his good shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He starts to say Mark’s just some guy he knew, but somehow he can’t make his mouth demote the best friend he ever had like that. So instead he settles for, “It’s complicated.”

“I think I can keep up.”

He’s desperate now, he doesn’t want to get into this. “It’s a really long story.”

She gives him a Look, like that’s the most pathetic excuse he could have come up with, and he acknowledges she’s right but he still holds onto the hope that she’ll let it go. She squashes that hope with extreme malice. “You’re not going anywhere for a while. And I’m entirely too comfortable to move.” She stretches a bit to emphasize her point, adding, “This really is the most amazing bed ever.”

He relents and retells the tale, of Harvard and the first time he met Mark and the instant connection they had. Of cram sessions and thinking he found a brother and algorithms and FaceMash. Of creating something so huge, so full of life that he could not even believe it came from their hands, and he wanted so badly for it to grow, to thrive. To be a testament of everything they were. Of how he tried, he really did want what was best and maybe he was young and didn’t know _what_ was best but he thought it had all worked itself out. He told of betrayals and the hurt and anger and how he could hardly believe something so right turned out so wrong. It was all very cathartic and he found he could tell the story straight through, without having to pause and collect himself like before when he had attempted it.

At the end, Yolanda has her arm around his shoulders and is patting the right one (which hurts like a bitch but the gesture is sincere and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her to stop). She breathes out a little before saying, “What an asshole.”

He wants to defend Mark and he doesn’t understand why, but something makes him feel like only _he_ can label Mark an asshole. Instead he settles for, “I might have been a bit biased.”

“Oh, you were completely biased. And you should probably have apologized for freezing the accounts. That was a dick move.”

He can’t help it. He starts to laugh, and his eyes are tearing up, but it’s like he has no control over his emotions anymore. When he can breathe again and stop the giggles erupting from his stomach, he leans his head against her shoulder and smiles. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”

“I’m an excellent friend.” She reaches for the room service menu while trying to stay as perfectly still as she can. “And for that, you have to buy me food. Lots and lots of food.”

He nods and closes his eyes. He half listens as she orders a copious amount of food and only opens his eyes when she turns on the television. A thought suddenly occurs to him and he laughs again (though this time it’s less I’m-having-an-emotional-release-and-can’t-stop-myself and more like this-is-way-too-fucking-ironic). “Landa. Did you realize? Luke _went to the dark side_.”

Her eyes widen before she bursts out in a fit of giggles.

&&&

Eduardo is not really upset with Luke’s defection for three reasons. First, they promote him to primary agent and he’s just about _bursting_ with glee (he gets to strategize and make judgment calls and he feels like he’s beaming the golden light of innovation from his fingertips. It’s intoxicating. Although now the director is on _his_ ass about every little thing that goes wrong and even when a mission is a success why didn’t they get it done sooner, with less expenses, and no, they cannot have a new Audi with built in weapons and maybe some lasers for good measure).

Secondly, Luke really was an ass, and the trust and morale they all feel for each other has grown exponentially, even now that they’re short an analyst (because Sabrina was promoted to secondary agent and it’s nigh impossible for her find a suitable replacement that can do her job as well as her. So she rejects everyone and Eduardo lets her because he does _not_ want her pissed at him on the field even if Dave looks close to a mental breakdown).

And finally (and most importantly), Luke _going to the dark side_ will never _not_ be funny.

His team quickly finds a new rhythm. He works well with Sabrina in the field. He knows she’ll be there to protect him and she knows he’ll make decisions with her in mind. Dave hangs onto his sanity somehow and handles the job of two people quite admirably. Eduardo pays even more attention to the shifts in his mood though, and often schedules short breaks for the boy genius. Yolanda hardly notices a difference but she does get new equipment to play with on Eduardo’s word to the director that it was vital to their next mission (it wasn’t, but when the top dogs at the CIA are on the director’s case about something, Eduardo quickly found out he could get just about anything the team wanted. Except for a brand new Audi with lasers built into the headlights, no matter how much it would protect the good people of America).

Eduardo is shot and injured several more times over the next few months (because apparently the primary agent really _is_ in a lot more peril). He manages not to be overly dramatic unless he’s close to unconsciousness (verbally at least. He still kicks up a fuss in his head because he’s _dying again_ , how does no one understand this?). He much prefers knife fights or hand-to-hand combat to gun fights. He can deal with bruises and cuts, with the prolonged nature of an intimate battle. Adrenaline fuels his body and he feels alive, he feels accomplished afterward (and he’s pretty sure he looks freaking cool while the fight goes on). Gun battles are too quick and most often start before he even realizes what is happening (though Sabrina has noticed this and has taken it upon herself to guard him against it. It’s odd and slightly unnerving, but he kind of likes that he’s being taken care of in Sabrina’s bizarre way).

His body, now even more slick and agile, is littered with scars and indentations, proof of his new life and of the distance from his old one. He takes the extra time every morning and evening to remind himself of that until he forgets what he used to look like, act like, _be_ like. He is a completely new Eduardo Saverin and he revels in it.

They’ve been pulled from active duty for the moment so everyone is going their separate ways to enjoy a little vacation. It feels very strange to Eduardo, since he’s been surrounded by his team for years and now they’re countries apart. Dave flies back to Nebraska to presumably hide in his mother’s basement until they call him back again. Sabrina plans an extensive series of trips, visiting old friends and family (and maybe a few ex-lovers she’s been meaning to get revenge on, but she pretends this isn’t her actual goal and the team pretends they aren’t terrified she’ll wind up on the news). Yolanda heads to some tropical climate (and she won’t tell anyone where because they’re _spies_ and spies like to _spy_ and she wants to sunbathe in private).

Eduardo finds his way back to his rarely used apartment in Singapore. The furniture is clean and the suite looks lived in, courtesy of the CIA (because what if his mother stopped by unannounced and noticed a thick layer of dust coating everything?). He throws his luggage on the couch (not his couch, just the couch, since he hardly recognizes anything in the furnished space as his. It’s empty and devoid of any meaning, a sad reflection of his old life and old relationships) and sighs. He’s not quite sure he has the strength to endure an extended vacation (and he feels ridiculous, because he’s supposed to wish the vacation would never end like a normal person would).

He spends his first few days just sleeping and familiarizing himself with what should be his home (he hasn’t had a real home since he’s had best friends and a career he could actually tell people about). He cooks and does his laundry and finally bores himself into a near coma. So he explores the city and gets lost more than anything, but at least he has a few amusing stories to relate to his team once they all get back together (which he prays is soon, please, please, he can’t take this much longer).

He finally succumbs to temptation and dials the number that occurs most frequently on his missed call logs. The phone rings three times before a cheery voice answers, “Dustin Moskovitz.” Before he can say a word, Dustin continues, “Who would wish to converse must answer me these questions three, 'ere the genius he see. What…is your name?”

Eduardo laughs and tries to remember why he didn’t call Dustin sooner. The man is a genius at entertaining. “Eduardo Saverin,” he answers, a smile in his voice.

“No way! No freaking way! Wardo?”

“I thought there were three questions?”

“SHUT UP. No, wait, Wardo stay on the line, I gotta get Chris, hang on.” Eduardo can hear some clattering and more than a few muffled curses. “Hang on!”

It’s a bit awkward at first (well, Eduardo and Chris find it awkward; Dustin is somewhere in Dustinland and is head over heels with joy) but they eventually find their dynamic again. Eduardo makes up stories about his work and relates some real adventures only slightly modified. Dustin bemoans the fact that he hasn’t seen him in _years_ and either Wardo has to come to California one day soon or Dustin will hop a plane unannounced and kidnap him. Eduardo laughs and hopes it’s an empty threat. Chris lets something slip into his tone when he tells Dustin that Wardo is probably just really busy with something really important (like he knows something he shouldn’t and it’s not just Eduardo’s paranoia. He’s trained to notice small differences like that. But he brushes it off because he does _not_ want Chris to know his double life, that would be a major problem and one he would rather not have to tell his superiors about. Or Sabrina. Sabrina would kill him).

They end the call on a good, nonthreatening note (Dustin only accidentally mentioned Mark five times, and not at all in the last half hour of conversation). And Eduardo is able to let his worries subside when later that week they all Skype and Chris seems jovial and carefree and completely willing to accept whatever lies Eduardo feeds him. He feels a bit of guilt but is comforted by the knowledge that no good would come from Chris or Dustin knowing his secret.

And just as he’s starting to actually enjoy his vacation, the CIA calls him in for a meeting in Washington. They tell him to assemble his team.

&&&

Eduardo contacts Dave first since he’s the easiest to find. He tells him to track Yolanda down and meet him and Sabrina at the Washington International Airport (Dave lets out a thankful breath and tells him how awesome Eduardo is, really, _thank you_. He’s not sure if Dave is grateful for getting back to work or for being spared tracking Sabrina down when she’s on a warpath. Probably both).

He finds Sabrina in Houston and she’s not exactly happy to see him. “You couldn’t wait one more week? I would have gotten everything done in one more week.” She holds up her revenge notebook (a pink and white design decorated with smiley faces and glitter that he sincerely hopes is ironic). “How did you find me?” she inquires as they head to her hotel room to pack.

“You made the paper.”

“I made several papers.”

“There’s more than one?” he cringes.

She snorts. “Some agent you are. I made four papers and two radio programs, and one televised newscast.”

“You know, a good agent won’t get herself or her actions published publically.”

“Are you questioning my competence?”

“All the time, Rina. All the time.”

She sends a fist into his stomach but he knows she’s being soft on him because he only doubles over (her full strength would send him sprawling onto the ground, vomiting and in severe agony).

It isn’t until they’re waiting at the airport for their flight to Washington that Eduardo realizes this is the first time he’s set foot in the United States in years. It’s weird but so easy to fall back into place, almost like he never left. Sabrina seems to read his mind and says that it’s because this will always be their home, regardless of how many years they’re abroad.

But this isn’t home. Home is speaking Portuguese and his father’s disapproving looks and shivering in the snowy night because he was pulled out of a party without his coat and flopping onto beds talking about chicken cannibalism. Home isn’t a place, it’s people (people he doesn’t talk to and tries not to think about so doesn’t that make him homeless?).

He spends the flight listening to Sabrina relay her accomplishments, a grin plastered to her face in triumph. He makes a mental note to never, ever date her. She’s even more insane than lighting beds on fire.

When they land in Washington, Dave and Yolanda are waiting for them. Dave rushes to hug Eduardo like he’s a lifeline and he’s surprised but returns it anyway (because human contact is something he forgot he needed).

After Dave extracts himself (with an embarrassed laugh and his eyes staring pointedly at the ground), he shoves a Tupperware container at both Sabrina and Eduardo. “My mom made you guys lemon squares.”

Eduardo smiles and thanks him, but Sabrina gives him a dirty look. “Are you trying to make me fat?”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take them,” Yolanda chirps, making grabby hands for the dish.

Sabrina clutches the Tupperware tightly to her. “No, these are mine!”

Dave smiles and clasps his hands behind his back, his eyes roaming over the team with a happiness Eduardo shares. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on his mushy, gooey feelings over the reunion because Yolanda starts to hand out souvenirs from her trip and looks expectantly at them, waiting for them to open the presents.

He unwraps his to find a black necklace with a shell pendant. “Thank you, it’s lovely.” Sabrina got a similar necklace and he can see Dave wearing a bracelet of the same style. It’s almost like their team has their own official jewelry now. So he attaches the necklace right away, even though it clashes with his sleek suit and tie combination (because it shows team unity and comradery and it’s definitely not because he feels like they’re family and wants to broadcast it to the world that he _belongs_ somewhere).

“So what did you bring me?”

All his warm and fuzzy feelings end abruptly and his face falls comically. He guiltily looks over at Sabrina, then back to Yolanda and Dave. “I, uh, didn’t think. Uh.”

Yolanda is scandalized. “You didn’t bring any souvenirs?”

“I was at home the whole time! It’s not like I was on a trip!” He looks around for any support he can find. “You’re not supposed to bring gifts when you just go home.” He’s losing this battle (even though it’s perfectly logical. He didn’t _go_ anywhere). He points in desperation at Sabrina. “She didn’t get you anything either. And she’s been _everywhere_.” He flutters his hands at the “everywhere” to emphasize his point.

“I brought barbeque sauce from Texas.” She’s smug and Eduardo kind of hates her a little at the moment.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he hangs his head in defeat. He waves his hand vaguely at the duty free shop. “Go pick out something you want.”

Yolanda squeals with excitement and tugs Sabrina and Dave along with her. Suddenly Eduardo feels like a very single, very harried parent.

&&&

The drive to Langley is short and Dave is only partway through recounting his epic disaster in babysitting his cousins when their SUV stops in front of the CIA headquarters. They’re quickly and efficiently ushered into a conference room painted stark white with dozens of computer screens littering the walls and a glass conference table in the center. They sit near each other and lean in to talk in hushed tones as they wait.

“Isn’t it a bit odd that they called us all the way back here?” Sabrina whispers.

“Is it odd?” Yolanda asks as she twirls in her chair.

“Have you ever been to the CIA headquarters before?”

Her eyes widen. “No.” She scoots her chair closer to the group. “Do you think they’re going to kill us?”

“What?!” Dave grips his hands on his chair.

“They’re not going to kill us,” Eduardo comforts, though he’s not entirely sure why they were called in either. All he knows is that it was absolutely vital.

They have no more time to speculate because the door to the conference room is yanked open and their director, a woman Eduardo has never seen before, and Ned (of all people) enter the room. The director and Ned take a sit directly across from the team, while the woman takes a seat at the wall a few feet away from the table. She immediately pushes on her reading glasses and starts reading through a stack of files on her lap.

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” the director starts, as if they even had a choice in the matter. “First, I want to tell you all what a great job you’re doing. Really top-notch.”

“We’re proud of our babies,” Ned adds with his disarming smile. The director shoots him a look that can only be interrupted as “please stay professional you jackass”. “What? I recruited most of them, I can feel like a proud papa.”

“You also recruited Walker.”

Ned cringes. “That was not my fault.”

“The force was strong with that one,” Eduardo comments before he can stop himself.

Ned laughs and the director rubs the bridge of his nose. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Please do,” the woman at the wall voices, not even looking up from her papers.

The director seems to get a little nervous before continuing. “Right, yes. Where was I?”

“We’re awesomesauce,” Yolanda supplied helpfully.

“Right, thank you. Seeing as you’ve proven yourself capable, we have a new assignment for you. This one is very big and unfortunately we do not have as much information as we’d like, but time is of the essence. We don’t have the luxury of detailed analysis this time.”

“How big?” Eduardo asks.

“Code Orange.”

“More like Vermillion,” Ned supplies.

The director ignores Ned. “You’ll be joining a terrorist task force. You’ll meet up with them in Palo Alto—”

Eduardo stops breathing. “Wait, what?”

“We’ll brief you on the strategy and background into the night and you’ll leave first thing in the morning—”

“Hold on…” Eduardo can’t believe what’s he’s hearing. It can’t actually be what he’s thinking. Palo Alto has a lot of organizations, right?

“Now Facebook is difficult to infiltrate so most of you will be working at a distance.”

Shit, shit, shit, it’s real. It’s really happening. His worst nightmare that he never even knew existed. He can’t deal with this, it cannot be happening. “Just what the _fuck_ do you think you’re talking about?” he shouts.

The room falls into a heavy silence. The director is taken aback, obviously not expecting one of his top agents to have an emotional outburst in his office (conference room, whatever). Ned looks confused and curious and Eduardo hates that (because it’s none of his or anyone’s damn business what happened at Facebook and why his heart can’t beat properly right now).

His team is looking at him strangely because he _never_ yells (even when he’s dying). And yes, they know his connection to Facebook (Sabrina isn’t an idiot, she knows who and what she’s working with and Dave lives, eats, and breathes computers, of course he would know who Eduardo Saverin was) but they don’t know the pain, the betrayal, the vow he made to never speak to Mark again. Except Yolanda. And she’s looking at him with worried eyes (and that’s almost worse than the curious and confused stares, because she _knows_ what’s happening under his skin right now, like she can see his scars, those blemishes he swore to never reveal).

The woman at the back of the room takes her glasses off and looks pointedly at Eduardo. They stare at each other for a while (Eduardo doesn’t even know who the hell she even _is_ but he supposes she could have everyone in the room killed and no one would question her reasoning). Finally, she speaks, “What my subordinates are so insensitively trying to convey is that you, Eduardo Saverin, will infiltrate the Facebook offices. Facebook is changing the world right now. Entire nations are planning revolutions over it, and that’s good for our government because we don’t like the old regimes. We would like to keep that going. Some regimes, however, do not like it and instead of shutting down the internet in a failed attempt to stop the revolts, they’ve decided to shut down the source. We have reason to believe the offices of Facebook and Twitter have been compromised. There’s a mole, or several moles. Frankly we don’t know. That’s _your_ job.

“You will swallow your pride, go back to Palo Alto, and act like Eduardo Saverin: Shareholder. You will find the mole, find who he or she is working for, take them out, and remember that you are an agent of the United States of America. You no longer have any emotions to yourself. Your thoughts and feelings are those of this agency and this agency is informing you that you’re thrilled to go to Facebook and do your damn service to this nation.” She replaces her glasses and goes back to her files, apparently done with the group.

Eduardo lets his mouth hang open for a second before he responds. “I won’t do it, I can’t do it. I _sued_ them, what the hell do you think M—” He can’t even say Mark’s name, not right now. “What will they think? I’m not exactly welcome there. Why can’t you plant a programmer? They’re always hiring programmers.”

“We’re working on placing Sabrina as an analyst, but, like I said before, time is of the essence.” The director clears his throat. “And you have a better chance of getting access to what we need. If you don’t do this, Facebook will be destroyed.”

It sounds a bit dramatic but Eduardo responds well to drama and he knows the director is right. Facebook’s strength is its trustworthiness. If governments can track people down with inside information from Facebook, people will eventually stop using it. And that would destroy it (and that’s all Mark has, that’s all _he_ has to remind him that losing a best friend had some meaning, and without it Mark wouldn’t exist. He feels panic racing through his blood).

He glares at Ned like this is all his fault (it is, he would never be in this position if Ned hadn’t recruited him. He will curse him until the day he dies). But he knows he has no real choice in the matter. So he’s going to back to Facebook. Back to the old Eduardo. He’s not sure he can survive.

“I want an Audi,” he finally bites out.

The director sighs with exasperation. “You’re not getting an Audi—”

“Give him an Audi, Harold,” the woman says.

“With lasers,” Yolanda adds.

“ _No lasers_.”

“One laser,” Sabrina counters.

The director glares at Eduardo, then his team, then at Ned (because he also knows this is _all Ned’s fault_ ) before silently nodding his head. “One laser.”

&&&

Everyone makes it seem so easy, like going to Palo Alto is just another assignment (it is, just not to him. To him, it’s exactly the reason he joined the CIA to begin with). Which means he’s the only one kind of freaking out on the plane ride and he’s incredibly sour and snapping at everyone and everything. And even that would be fine if Dave didn’t look terrified that a few hours alone with Sabrina turned Eduardo (darling Eduardo) into her clone, and if Sabrina could let a bad tone go (but she can’t and she’s ready for a one-on-one fist fight before they even leave the east coast).

So Yolanda extracts herself from her bubble of oblivion, tucks her novel back into her bag and sits next to Eduardo. She pats his hand lightly and leans her head on his shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”

He scowls and faces the window. He sorely regrets telling her what happened (he must have been high on pain medication). “No.”

“Are you sulking?”

“No.” (Yes, and he has every right to, thank you very much.)

“Mmm-hmm,” she hums skeptically. “Look, Wardo. We’re going. You can’t change that. But, you’re not the same person you were back then. You’re stronger, tougher, and—dare I say it?—sexier.”

A smile tugs at his lips but he does _not_ want to smile right now, he’s enjoying his sulking. “I’ve always been sexy.”

“Yes, yes. But now you have, like, scars and stuff. Very manly. Like a really skinny gladiator or something.”

Eduardo curls his lips. “Gee, thanks Yolanda. You’re really helping.”

“Hmm. It’s not like you hate everyone there. You’re still friendly with that Kip guy and that Doug guy, right?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You mean Chris and Dustin?”

She purses her lips. “No, I’m pretty sure that it’s Kip and Doug.”

He rests his head against the window with a _thump_. It’s a welcome cold against his skin and he feels his jitters subside, if only a little. “You’re insane.”

“I’m eccentric. And you’re a coward.”

“Am not.” (He isn’t. He just prefers to avoid certain things. Like ex-best friends who are the very definition of a traitor.) But Yolanda is right about one thing: he isn’t who he was all those years ago. And he can act and pretend. He’s good at that. He’s played so many roles as a spy, so many different personas. He can play this one. He’ll be quick. Just until they can place Sabrina or some other brilliant programmer, or until he can find the mole. Whichever comes first, he really doesn’t care.

And after it’s all over, he’s going to get drunk and stay drunk for several days, call his father to tell him exactly what he thinks of the man who gave him life (and nothing else after that), and forget forever that this whole affair ever happened.

And if there’s still a tiny part of him that hopes the plane will crash, well, so be it.

&&&

They meet up with the terrorist task force at some seedy motel in Palo Alto. They have five members (apparently that’s the magic number with these government policing organizations), all ex-military, all incredibly threatening to look at. Eduardo realizes they’re in two entirely different circles. He’s used to subtle, smooth, calculating operations. They’re used to brute force and fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants ventures. He feels over- and under-qualified simultaneously.

He introduces his team before he and the task force’s leader convene in another room. The task force leader (Hugo is his name) is tall and bulky and Eduardo is certain he could lift a car if he had to. He smokes cigarettes and always has a pair of sunglasses somewhere on his body but never over his eyes. He takes a liking to Eduardo and calls him “little buddy” (which is ridiculous, because okay maybe he doesn’t have muscles the sizes of boulders but he’s still tall and that has to mean _something_ ).

Apparently the CIA believes Eduardo will be here longer than he intends, because they’ve rented him a house ten minutes from the Facebook offices. It’s a substantial size, with large pane glass windows and hundreds of hidden spots for his weapons and tools. Technically he’s supposed to inhabit it alone—to keep up pretenses that he’s in town by himself—but he’s feeling rebellious and just a little lonely so he invites (orders) his team to move in. He sincerely doubts anyone at Facebook is going to follow him home to find three strangers living with him.

The girls take the master bedroom (“You don’t even have a choice in the matter,” Sabrina tells him) and Eduardo gives the guest room to Dave. He sets his luggage up in the living room and flops onto the couch for the night. It’s narrow and just barely fits his frame if he bends his knees a bit, but it is comfortable. He doesn’t plan on sleeping there too long anyway and he spent many nights curled in awkward and highly uncomfortable positions before (after midterms when he was a little tipsy and Mark was coding and he leaned his head onto Mark’s knees, shutting his eyes when he felt a warm hand comb through his hair).

He spends the next few hours wide awake and staring at the ceiling, contemplating all the ways this could wind up in failure. He wills time to slow down because come morning, he has to shower, get dressed, eat breakfast (whatever he can stomach) and head to a shareholder’s meeting. Where he will probably see Chris and Dustin and…other people.

He runs a hand over his face and sighs. He’s changing his internal theme music to James Bond, because he’s not sure even Tom Cruise could handle tomorrow.

&&&

Eduardo wakes up to high-pitched squealing. He’s up and off the couch in two seconds flat, hand wrapped firmly around his gun and eyes clearing quickly to scan the room. Yolanda is standing by the window, a toothbrush hanging loosely in her mouth and her slippered feet bouncing up and down.

He sends her a look between “what the hell” and “shut up, I hate you” but she ignores him and points outside. “It’s here!” she exclaims around her toothbrush.

He peers outside and a grin spreads across his face. His Audi. His beautiful, magnificent, laser-equipped Audi is here. In dark red with leather seating and he’s out the door before he realizes it. He shouts as he virtually skips to the door, “Sabrina, Dave, get out here now!”

They all stare at the car for a few minutes, peering through the windows and underneath and overtop it. Finally Dave says, “Where do you think they put the laser?”

“It should be in the headlights, right?” Yolanda reasons.

Sabrina huffs and crosses her arms. “Not if it’s just one. It has to be somewhere you’d never expect it.”

Eduardo runs his hands over the top—careful, loving caresses like he’s found a lost lover. “I love you,” he murmurs to it under his breath, but Sabrina still caught it and she rolls her eyes.

“Oh for crying out loud, it’s a fucking car.”

“And you can’t drive her,” he retorts, never looking up.

“Can I drive her?” Yolanda pips up.

“Only if my life is in serious peril.”

“Sabrina, can I borrow your gun for a moment?”

He laughs. But sooner than he would have liked, Hugo pulls up into the driveway in his Hummer, calling out the window, “You about ready?”

Eduardo grimaces before holding his hand up. “Give me a bit.”

He showers quickly and spends a little too much time on his hair (he has never been so dissatisfied with the thick locks. It’s like his entire body decided to rebel against him). He selects a gray three-piece suit and a white dress shirt. His cuff links are platinum and his shoes shined to perfection. He tucks Yolanda’s necklace under his collar and almost forgets to apply his cologne (because as an agent he’s learnt to not leave any evidence of his presence, including his scent. But they’ll expect him to be the same Eduardo. Even if the detail is small, he finds it comforting to apply the scent like applying the mask of the Eduardo he knows he isn’t).

He skips breakfast but sips his coffee while the others eat. They have a short briefing about the plans. Eduardo is going in to the meeting and then will (somehow) find a reason to stay and preferably obtain access to one of their computers so they won’t have to resort to hacking in (which would more than likely alert the staff that someone unauthorized is in their system). Sabrina has a meeting with the Facebook recruiters at the end of the week so until then, she’ll run surveillance and document everyone going into and out of the offices. Dave will assist her in background checks while he waits for Eduardo’s computer access. Yolanda will join the task force and prepare for any attacks or inconveniences that might occur.

And just like that, Eduardo is shipped off to his car and makes the short drive to the office (the last time he was here, it ended with destruction of private property. He really hopes Mark doesn’t want revenge because he _just_ got the Audi and hasn’t even had time to find the laser yet).

&&&

He almost expects security to stop him at the door, like they have his picture posted by the entrance with a large “NO ENTRY” under it. But they let him through and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He goes to fill out a visitor’s form but oddly enough, the moment he flashes his ID, they usher him through. He’s confused and wants to know why he was never taken off the permanent visitor’s log (like he was Chris or Dustin or Sean Parker and Mark didn’t hate him), but he knows he doesn’t have the time to ponder it.

He finds the shareholder’s conference room easily enough (it’s been years since he set foot here, and he blocked most of that from his mind, but he’s studied the blueprints over the last couple days. He could find his way through the entire building with the lights shut off). There’s a reception desk before the room where he has to sign in. He stops there and the girl smiles welcomingly. He wonders how long that smile will remain on her face once he utters his name.

“Good morning, sir,” she greets with professional cheer. “Name please?”

“Eduardo Saverin.” He says it with false confidence and he’s already starting to panic. He doesn’t know where all his talent went but he doesn’t think he’s fit to be a spy anymore. Nope, he should find another career. Like ice fishing or something. He could do that (but he hates the cold).

But the receptionist only types away at her computer. “Alright, you’re representing Eduardo Saverin. And your name is?”

He remembers now that he always sent a representative to the shareholder’s meetings to act on his behalf. “Eduardo Saverin,” he clarifies.

“Yes, but I need your name as well.”

He wants to laugh because this is really kind of funny. It’s like they’re performing their own twisted version of _Who’s On First_. He pulls his ID from his wallet again and tosses it on the desk, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “ _I’m_ Eduardo Saverin.”

She picks up the ID tentatively before her eyes widen and she snaps her head back up to him, her mouth slack. “M-Mr. Saverin. Uh, I, uh, apologize. You’ve never been to a…” she trails off as if she realized it might not be a good idea to prod too much. She stands abruptly and comes out from around the desk. “Let me show you to the room.”

She gestures around the hall as they walk to the room, pointing out where the bathroom is and what that corner is, like he doesn’t already know (he’s not supposed to know. He has to remember he’s playing a role, even if it’s with his own name). Finally, she opens the conference room door for him and ushers him in.

It’s a large, airy space, with more windows than walls. It’s just a room, he has to remind himself when he finds his breath a little irregular. There are already other people in the room (people he only recognizes from the photos in the case file), conversing amongst themselves. He takes a seat by the back and declines the receptionist’s offer of a beverage (because the only drink he wants right now is a gin and tonic. Without the tonic).

He pulls out his phone and starts texting Sabrina (more because he feels self-conscious rather than the need to relay any important information).

He gets a text back from Yolanda. _Say hi to Doug for me._

He chuckles and texts back. _What about Kip?_

_Who the hell is Kip?_

As his fingers fly over his phone, he hears a strange noise, like a _meep_ or stifled gasp. He glances up without moving his head and locks eyes with a very surprised-looking Chris. He steels himself and launches into his persona. He places his phone lightly on the table and smiles. “Hey, Chris.”

“Wardo. You’re here. At Facebook.”

He nods and stands, holding out his hand to his old friend. “Your powers of deduction are impeccable.”

Chris releases a strangled laugh and steps forward, grasping Eduardo’s forearm and tugging him into a half-hug. “It’s good to see you.”

Eduardo tries not to tense, tries to remember that he used to be free with his touches and affections (it’s been so long since he initiated human contact). He returns the hug and gives Chris a couple friendly pats on the pat. “Yeah, it’s good to see you too.”

Chris pulls back and grabs the seat next to where Eduardo had been. “What…I mean. I don’t want to be rude, but…”

“What am I doing here?” Eduardo finishes for him with an amused lift of his eyebrows.

“Yeah, basically.”

“I had some business I had to attend to.” Which isn’t a lie. He doesn’t want to lie to Chris, at least not any more than he has to. “Hey, can we grab lunch after this? I have some things I’d like to discuss with you.” (He needs an office, complete computer access, and no questions asked. But he’s pretty sure he can’t say it like that.)

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Chris is nodding his head up and down at an alarming rate.

They start to talk about anything but Facebook and how odd it is that Eduardo showed up completely unannounced. Eduardo finds it difficult to find the line between what’s real and what’s fabrication. He’s too much like this role, he can’t find the divide. He’s afraid of sinking so far in that he can never find his way out (and it’s dark and terrifying and he knows he’ll drown so far this time that he’ll never find his way out. Not with false pretenses and pretend personas, not with makeshift families and nights spent playing I Never. He’ll lose himself again, so far, so deep, so gone that he’ll fade away into invisibility and no one will ever find him, and save him, and _see_ him.).

But soon he catches a glimpse out of the glass doors of two people talking animatedly and walking towards the conference room. One a little tall and gesturing wildly with his hands and his head and even a little with his feet (Dustin hasn’t changed a bit). The other a little shorter with a mop of unkempt curls atop his head and hands hiding in the front pocket of his gray hoodie (and stark blue eyes that Eduardo knew could cut through his ribs and to the left where his heart used to lay).

They open the door like it’s an ordinary day, like it’s not a collision of two worlds, like it isn’t the most difficult thing in the world (because they don’t know, they can’t see him yet, Mark never saw him, never saw, _never_ ).

Dustin starts to wave a little at Chris when his eyes stop short on Eduardo and he’s left with his hand stupidly locked mid-wave and his jaw hanging wide open. “Shit.”

Eduardo doesn’t want to look at Mark, but he feels the heavy weight of his gaze. He can feel the skin under his suit burn (maybe Mark really _is_ a robot and has laser eyes. That would make sense). But he’s on the job, he has to save Facebook, save the American public, save the world (he has to save Mark, he has to save himself, and for once it’s all connected). So he shifts his head and locks eyes with Mark (the eyes that drove daggers through his heart across the deposition table, like he brought this all on himself, like he didn’t even _matter_ , disdain and displeasure so familiar to Eduardo that he can conjure up the image in a split second—though it used to be reflected in darker eyes, the same brown as his own).

And he doesn’t have to worry about sinking too far into his role anymore, because he’s gone. All his growth, all the years, every good he’s ever done is gone and now he’s standing on the porch in the middle of the night, soaking wet, water dripping down his neck and past his shirt collar to his back. He’s standing there, humiliated and rejected and desperate for Mark to see, to _know_ (but Mark doesn’t and never will because Mark is a prophet and prophets don’t waste their time on people like Eduardo).

Yeah, he’s not going to survive this.

&&&

Neither Eduardo nor Mark make a move to break eye contact and it’s starting to freak the others out in the room. Eduardo can clearly make out several conversations.

_“What’s going on?”_

_“That’s the guy who sued Zuckerberg.”_

_“And he thinks he can just show up?”_

No, he doesn’t think he can just show up. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to remember this. He in no fucking way wants this deep, scorching pain to resonate through his body. His stomach is cramping, his head is throbbing, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are wide and shining with tears he will hold back by any means necessary (even if it kills him).

It might have been easier if Mark looked different (but he looks the same. He looks like he did when he came up with Facebook, his eyes glowing and his mouth moving a mile a minute. He looks like he did when he met Sean Parker for the first time, mouth in an awed smile even Eduardo had never pulled from him. He looks like he did when he diluted his shares and didn’t even bat an eyelash).

Of course, nothing about Mark was ever easy. Not for Eduardo.

He doesn’t realize how long they stay locked in each other’s gaze. He can see Dustin in his peripheral vision trying to shake Mark into action. He thinks Chris is doing the same to him because his hand is vibrating.

Why is his hand vibrating?

He frowns and he can see Mark flinch (like his facial expression even matters to the man, which doesn’t make any sense because Eduardo doesn’t _matter_ to Mark). He finally breaks eye contact to figure out why his hand is still vibrating. It’s his phone. He’s getting a call.

Well. That would explain it. He shifts his eyes back up to Mark (who still hasn’t looked away. Why isn’t he looking away?) before pressing the answer button.

“Saverin.”

_“You are a fucking agent of the fucking Central Intelligence Agency. Get a fucking hold of yourself.”_

He makes a small noise of surprise. “How did you – ”

_“You have a fucking camera in your tie clip, remember? How did you ever make it to primary agent?”_

He lets out a breath and suddenly the tightness in his chest is tolerable. He still wants the floor to open up beneath him and make him disappear, but he can deal. He feels grounded, like he can think again. “Thank you Rina.”

_“Don’t screw up.”_

“Love you too.”

He ends the call and slips his phone into his suit pocket. His eyes search for Mark (he doesn’t know why, he should be happy they’re not locked in an eternal battle of wills and glares), who has finally taken a seat near the door, laptop open and fingers flying over the keyboard like it’s a lifeline (and to Mark, it is). There’s a dark look on his face that Eduardo was expecting from the beginning. And he realizes that just because he was expecting it, doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Wardo!” Dustin slams his palms against the table by Eduardo’s side.

He looks up and smiles. “Hello, Dustin.”

Dustin leans down and awkwardly tries to hug him, nearly falling in his lap in the process. “You are an awful, horrible person. You should have told me you were coming. Why didn’t you tell me?” He still hasn’t let go and Eduardo is patting his back and mouthing “help me” to Chris.

Chris takes pity on them both and extracts Dustin from Eduardo’s neck, whispering about this being a shareholder’s meeting and can you try to act professional? He pulls Dustin across the room to sit next to Mark. Dustin mouths to Eduardo, “We’re going for lunch.”

Eduardo nods, shifting to look at Mark quickly. Their eyes meet again but this time Mark only holds the stare for a minute (squinting slightly like he’s trying to figure something out and he can’t quite do it with all the clutter around so he narrows his frame of vision). Eduardo wonders if he figured it out when he turns back to coding or updating or something to do with Mark’s freaking computer (he hates that computer. He hates how some metal and plastic shaped into a rectangle could be more important than him. _Don’t break the computer, don’t cause a scene, that would be bad_ , he reminds himself.).

He pretends to pay close attention to the meeting (because that’s presumably why he’s here), taking notes and looking inquisitive. He only half listens and scans the faces around him, analyzing if any of them are the threat (unlikely, but he has to start somewhere). That is, until he hears something that could very well be his in at the office. The presenter (some woman he’s never seen before) is talking about their statistics projection interfaces and how they’re branching out to different areas to improve it. And that, that could be useful.

The meeting ends (it had to end eventually) and Dustin is grabbing Eduardo’s wrist and won’t let it go, like he thinks Eduardo will run away if he does (he wouldn’t. He’s sixty percent sure he wouldn’t run away). They leave the room quickly (before he has a chance to give in to temptation and speak to Mark because he’s a masochist, he can admit that).

The whole affair is rather anticlimactic and he can almost hear Yolanda’s sigh of disappointment.

&&&

Dustin and Eduardo walk to a little diner a couple blocks down from the office (which Dustin insists has the best chili cheese dogs available in the whole town). They sit and order a couple beers while they wait for Chris. Eduardo listens to Dustin recount his most amusing stories. He smiles and laughs and his stomach is aching because he’s not used to laughing this hard and this much. He feels like he’s back in university, like they’re skipping class and trying to order alcohol without getting carded. It hurts how much he misses it.

Chris finally joins them. He falls heavily into the chair between Dustin and Eduardo and immediately lays his head on the table.

“Chris?” Eduardo asks while Dustin prods his co-worker’s side.

Chris holds up a hand but doesn’t lift his head. “I hate you. I hate you so much.” Finally he shifts and peers up at Eduardo from the table. “You do _not_ know what I just went through with Mark.”

“Chr—is,” Dustin teems, his eyes darting from Chris to Eduardo quickly. “Ix-nay on the Ark-may.”

Chris squints at Dustin for a full thirty seconds in disbelief. “He came to Facebook. I think he was expecting Mark to be there.”

“Chriiiiiiis.”

“Dustin, it’s okay,” Eduardo finally interjects. “I knew he’d be there. He, uh. He…” Eduardo doesn’t really know where he’s going with this line of thought and he trails off awkwardly. He prays his team doesn’t notice (but they will and he’ll have to avoid a lot of questions when he gets back).

Chris lifts his head and grabs Dustin’s beer, downing half of it before Dustin even has the chance to protest. “Mark wants to know what your plans are. I want to know. Dustin is plotting ways to kidnap you and keep you here forever. What are you doing here, Wardo?”

Eduardo prays his explanation will work. “I propose a trade. I have some data. A lot of data. And I’d like to run it through the Facebook projection interfaces. I need the technology. In return, you can keep the data. It’s marketing information from my business interests in Asia.”

“Deal!” Dustin sticks his hand out quickly to confirm with a handshake.

“Dustin, we have to run it by Mark first,” Chris reminds him.

“On it!” He stands and fishes out his phone, he taps on it a bit before walking away for the conversation. “Get me another beer, Chris!”

“So.” Chris sets his attention back on Eduardo. “How’s Singapore?”

“Good, it’s good. How’s life here?”

“Good.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before it becomes apparent that Chris will not make the first move. Eduardo clears his throat and leans forward. “You don’t have to pretend to be happy to see me if you’re not. It’s okay if you still hate me.”

His eyes go wide. “What? W-we don’t hate you. We never hated you. _I_ never hated you.”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows in skepticism. “I hated you,” he offers.

Chris opens his mouth and gapes. “Excuse me?”

“I hated you a while there. You and Dustin both signed contracts. Neither of you signed the same one as me. Mark must have told you something, you weren’t completely ignorant. And yet neither of you gave me even a clue as to what was going down, even though I was your friend too.”

Chris leans forward eagerly. “We didn’t know he’d do something like. And you were always gone and—”

Eduardo places his hand over Chris’ jittering wrist to still him. “It’s okay. I understand. I don’t know what I would have done in the same situation. You did what you felt was best.” He smiles. “I’m over it.”

Chris plays with Dustin’s beer then tilts his head. “We might have hated you for a little bit. But only for like a day,” he reassures Eduardo quickly. They share a quiet laugh and suddenly it’s okay between them again.

Eduardo smiles. “I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable for you. With Mark,” he adds.

“Yeah. I mean no. I mean.” Chris sighs and places his palms flat on the table. “I’m glad you’re here. And Dustin is,” he looks over at Dustin practically jumping up and down with his phone plastered to his ear. “Dustin is just a little happy too.”

“Only a little,” Eduardo agrees.

“I need to know that you’re not going to cause any…” He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable with what he’s planning to say. “Mark is in a delicate situation right now.”

Eduardo tenses and his eyes sharpen. “Is he okay?” And why he needs to know if Mark is okay, he can’t quite figure out. He shouldn’t care. Mark doesn’t care if he’s okay. (But he’ll always care. He might be hurt, humiliated, betrayed, but he’ll always care. It’s like he’s been placed under some magic spell and he’ll never be free.)

“Yeah, yeah. He’s just a little stressed right now. There have been some…privacy issues on the site and it’s just really stressful. I swear, he slept only ten hours in the last five days.”

“What the hell, Chris? He’s going to burn himself out.” Eduardo is angry and worried and he feels like he did before when he was in love with Mark and it’s screwing with his brain. (But he was never in love with Mark. He loved Mark. Like a brother. Yeah. That’s it.)

“I know.” Chris runs a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t listen to me. You know that.” Eduardo doesn’t say anything but nods knowingly. “Just promise me you won’t do anything to make things worse.”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows, slightly insulted even if it was expected. He leans forward, looks Chris straight in the eye, and tells the truth. “I would never do anything to harm Facebook. I’m here to help Facebook. And Mark. You have my word.”

Chris nods. “Okay, thank you.”

Dustin flops down into his seat again, his grinning from ear-to-ear. “So, Wardo, what do you say to a corner office?”

&&&

They help him set up in an empty office. It is entirely surrounded by glass panes and has a beautiful view of the city. The furniture is sleek and modern like the rest of the building. Eduardo stands by the window and stares a little at the view, bright California sun flooding into the room.

His office is directly under Mark’s and he can’t help but think Mark is trying to send a message (he’s beneath him, always beneath. Never good enough. But Mark doesn’t know Eduardo knows the blueprint to the building so maybe he’s just making things up again). He’s pretty sure his mind is going to break if he spends any more than two weeks here. He’s already clawing under his skin to get _out_.

There isn’t much to do until the mole tries something (or maybe the mole could just come up to him and say, “Hey, I’m the mole, you can take me in now.” That would be really nice) so Eduardo finds himself doing the actual work he pretends he’s there for. He had hoped to see as little of Mark as he could, but apparently the boy genius is a very hands-on boss. He lost count of how many times Mark came down to talk to the accounting teams or the public relations teams (both of which he could see from his office). Mark in particular has a lot to discuss with an accountant named Erin (who always looks so confused and nervous and seriously _confused_ whenever Mark stops to chat with her, several times a day. He sympathizes with her—Mark’s way of explanation can sometimes make a person’s head spin). And every time Mark passes by his office, they lock eyes and Eduardo can’t breathe properly and he curls his fingers and he wants to look away but he physically cannot break contact.

It takes an incredible toll on his mood and by the third day at the Facebook offices, Eduardo is moody and snappish and cross at everyone and everything. When he reaches his accommodations that night, he is ready to kill a puppy. (Not a cute one, but one of those ugly ones that breathe heavily. He isn’t a _monster_.)

“Wardo, I need you to write out a progress report for the director,” Sabrina informs him from the kitchen table where she’s shuffling through her notes on the case.

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m not team leader.”

“Never stopped you before,” he answers curtly, opening the fridge for a beer. “We’re out of beer.”

She points to the cupboard idly with her pen. “There’s some in there.”

He scowls and yanks out a case of beer. “It’s warm.”

“Yeah. It’s been in the cupboard.” The _duh_ goes unsaid but remains clear in her tone.

“Why the hell didn’t you put it in the fridge?”

She finally spares him a glance. “Because I don’t drink beer. What, are you on your period or something?”

“Fuck you.”

She throws her pen down on the table and stands abruptly. “Excuse me?”

He twists the top off a beer and takes a large gulp. He grimaces and sticks out his tongue in disgust before answering more slowly, “Fuck. You.”

“I’m going to kick your puny little ass, Saverin.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

She throws a punch at his face that he barely dodges. He glances to his right to see her hand embedded in the wall where his face used to be. “Shit, Rina.”

“What, what, what’s going on?” Yolanda comes running into the room, followed by Dave. Yolanda takes one glance and immediately places herself between Sabrina and Eduardo. “Hey, hey, we’re all friends here, right?” She places her hands carefully on Sabrina’s shoulders. “Why don’t we get pizza and get drunk and watch _America’s Next Top Model_? I hear Tyra Banks is going to go crazy. It’ll be fierce. Yeah?”

Eduardo scowls and turns to leave the kitchen. “I’m going to bed.”

“But our stuff is still set up in the living room—” Dave interjects.

“I’m taking the fucking guest room.”

“Where is Dave going to sleep?” Sabrina demands.

Eduardo is already down the hall. “He can sleep on the fucking roof for all I care!” he shouts before slamming the door closed to the guest room. He tears his suit off and almost rips it to shreds before throwing it across the room. He’s angry and he thinks maybe if he throws enough inanimate objects he won’t be angry anymore. He flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling (angrily).

He can hear them outside the door. Yolanda is comforting Dave and Sabrina is cursing him and his family and every pet he ever owned to an eternity of hell. He feels guilty but he’s also really, really pissed off right now and he deserves some alone time.

But when, by midnight, he can’t sleep and his muscles feel like they’re going to jump out of his skin, he sighs in defeat and alights from the bed. He throws on a shirt and a pair of gym shorts, grabbing his iPhone and securing a knife to his upper thigh. He opens the door quietly and sees Dave sleeping fitfully on the couch. And now he feels _very_ guilty (he’s a very bad person).

He shakes Dave’s shoulder and whispers. “Hey, Dave. Hey, wake up.”

Dave blinks his eyes open. They look fuzzy because he can’t focus properly without his glasses. “Wardo?” he asks.

“Hey, Dave, go back to the room.”

Dave takes in a breath but shifts his blanket closer to his body. “No, it’s okay, you deserve the bed.”

Eduardo moans a little and shakes his head. “No, no. Take the bed. I was upset tonight and took it out on you. Sorry.” He smiles apologetically.

Dave smiles back slowly and sits up. “Yeah, no big deal.”

“We’re good?”

Dave nods. “We’re good.”

Eduardo ruffles his hair before grabbing his keys and heading to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m heading out for a jog. I feel like I have too much energy pent up.”

Dave laughs a little. “Yeah, you’re not used to just sitting all day, are you?”

“Nope.” He holds up his phone. “I have my phone so just text me if there’s a situation. I should be back in an hour.”

“D-do you want the bed when you get back?”

“Take the damn bed, Dave. That’s an order.”

“Thanks.”

Eduardo gives him a wave goodbye and heads out into the cool California night.

&&&

His thighs and legs have reached that good burn and he finally feels spent and pleasantly empty as his feet pound on the pavement, left, right, left, right (patterns and orders and equations stomping into the ground beneath his feet, centering him, reminding him there is always an answer). He controls his breathing and matches his pace to the rhythm of his music. He feels good.

So why (when he was feeling so good, so _right_ ) he ends up at the Facebook office, he does not even want to know. It’s like his body took control and is seeking revenge on his heart.

He slows to a jaunt, gazing up at the building. It really is amazing, how one idea, a series of code, and Mark Zuckerberg created all this. He feels a swell of pride despite all that happened. Because he had been there, he had seen it happen. He was part of it. The history of Facebook would always have his name next to Mark’s, like it had always been meant to.

The office is dark except for a few random rooms and the sporadic flicker of a security guard’s flashlight pacing up and down the halls. He wonders if he should take a quick look around since he’s already here (you know, for espionage purposes. It’s not like he wants to revel in this nice proud feeling or anything).

A security guard lets him in. “Evening, Mr. Saverin,” he greets, like this is a normal occurrence and Eduardo nods gratefully.

He explores the area, marveling at the sleek design and splashes of color. It is all inherently Mark and he wonders how much input he made with the design team (or if he brushed them off and let Dustin and Chris takes the reins).

He wipes his forehead of cooling sweat with the bottom edge of his shirt and glances down. There’s a light on in Mark’s office. He frowns. It’s almost one in the morning now, and he’s pretty sure Mark hasn’t been home in a couple days (because his hoodies have all but molded to his frame, even if he does alternate them every other day). He pauses momentarily at the door, telling himself this is a really bad idea ( _just walk away, Saverin. You’re not here to take care of him anymore_ ). But he can admit he’s been on edge (okay, he’s been a horrible, cranky person. He kicked _Dave_ out of his room. _Dave_ ) and he admits to himself it has more than a little to do with the man in the next room.

He takes one more moment to remember he once took down a drug cartel _by himself_ before knocking lightly at the door. He doesn’t get a response and he almost walks away. He actually shifts his foot to move away but his hand (traitorous hand) has grasped the doorknob and he’s in the office before he can bring it under control.

Mark is wired in, headphones blaring some music Eduardo knows Mark likes (but Eduardo hates). He has been watching Mark for the last three days but it’s still a shock to his system to see him here, coding again. He releases a shaky breath and opens his mouth to speak (but he pauses again because he’s not sure what he should call him now. Mr. Zuckerberg sounds too formal and Asshole is a bit antagonistic). He opens his mouth again and goes with instinct.

“Mark.” It’s weak and even he can hardly hear himself. “Mark,” he tries again, louder and stronger, but Mark still doesn’t look up. He walks to Mark’s desk and lays his hands on the flat surface, leaning down to say even louder, “Mark.”

Mark jerks and glances up. His fingers stop abruptly and he stares, unmoving.

Eduardo gestures to the earphones. “The earphones, Mark.”

Mark blinks a couple times before tugging the devices out of his ears and laying them on the desk, still holding Eduardo’s gaze.

Eduardo is afraid this will turn into another one of their let’s-not-talk-but-just-stare-at-each-other moments so he starts, “Hey, um—”

“I have friends,” Mark interrupts.

Eduardo squints and raises his right brow. “What?”

“You said I had one friend, that you were my one friend. That’s not true. I have friends. I have a lot of friends.”

“And that’s…Mark, that’s the first thing you’re going to say to me after all these years?”

Mark tilts his head. “Is there something more appropriate I should discuss with you? Like maybe why you’re back here when you _sued_ me?”

Eduardo groans and runs a hand through his hair. “This was a bad idea.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Mark continues forward, ignoring Eduardo. “You always wear suits.”

“I was jogging.”

“You don’t jog.”

“I do now.”

“Why?”

“Because I felt like it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Oh, God forbid an answer isn’t sufficient for Mark Zuckerberg.”

“I don’t believe in God.”

Eduardo lets out an angry hum and flairs his hands in frustration. He casts his eyes around the room because this conversation is ridiculous. He notices a can of Red Bull and an empty package of Red Vines. “When was the last time you had a proper meal?”

Mark scoffs and turns back to his computer to code. “Don’t tell me you’re going to play mother again.”

He should let this go. He should say goodnight and turn around and walk away and maybe get some ice cream from the corner store on his way back to the house. He should— “What do you mean, ‘play mother’?”

Mark peers up briefly at him before returning to the computer screen. “You really should get a therapist to deal with your incessant need to take care of everyone. Like when you’d do my laundry, you were feeding your own selfish desire to feel wanted.”

“I did that because I cared about you.”

“Please, you did that so you could forget your father doesn’t love you.” Mark opens his mouth and stills his hands, like he wasn’t expecting that to come out.

Eduardo stares at him. His eyes have started to water. He can feel himself start to break. He can’t believe Mark brought that up (he needs to learn that Mark does this to him. Mark breaks down every wall, every fortitude, every safe haven he builds to protect himself. Mark has a master key to his heart). He knows he looks hurt and betrayed all over again and he wishes he could pull off the stony expression Mark is so good at. “Go to hell, Mark.”

He stomps to the door and has his hand on the cold knob when he hears Mark say, “I don’t believe in hell, either.”

He lifts his middle finger and slams the door shut behind him. He is breathing fast and blinking ever faster. Mark never changes. Mark is always the same. He’s still the same insensitive jerk he always was. He still doesn’t take care of himself. He still drinks Red Bull and eats junk for dinner. He still has dark circles under his eyes and he’s going to collapse if he doesn’t get some sleep soon.

“Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.” He strides back to Mark’s office, opening the door in a rush and stopping at the desk again. “When was the last time you saved?”

 

Mark’s eyes have widened slightly and Eduardo inwardly cheers that he finally pulled some semblance of expression out of him. “What?”

“Your progress, when was the last time you saved it?”

“A minute ago?”

“Good.” He slams the laptop closed.

“What the fuck, Wardo?” Mark backs away in his chair, an incredulous look on his face.

Eduardo ignores the familiar tone in the way Mark calls him name and moves around the desk to loom over Mark. “Get up. You’re going home.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “No.”

“Get up.”

“ _No_ ,” Mark repeats with more force.

Eduardo scoffs before grabbing his arm and tugging him up to his feet. “Where are your car keys? I’m taking you home and you’re going to sleep. For at least six hours.”

“My coat pocket,” Mark supplies helpfully. Eduardo reaches over to grab Mark’s jacket while still holding his arm. They’re impossibly close and he can hear Mark’s inhalations and exhalations. His fingers falter momentarily and the keys jingle out but Mark catches them before they hit the floor. They stay like that for a moment longer. Eduardo can smell the detergent from Mark’s hoodie and the sweet smell of Red Vines. He’s pretty sure Mark can see his pulse thump in his neck and he swallows.

“I can drive myself,” Mark whispers softly and it feels too intimate (like his statement was a sweet nothing shared between lovers).

Eduardo releases Mark and seizes the keys. “I’m playing mother. Deal with it.”

He tries not to feel butterflies in his stomach when Mark tilts his head slightly and lifts the left corner of his mouth in a ghost of a smile. He tries not to see the soft expression, tries not to feel warm and happy and _safe_ (because “Mark” and “safe” should never appear in a sentence together unless “is not” occurs between them).

He needs to get used to failing.

&&&

Eduardo is somewhat surprised that Mark follows him without so much as a remark, but when he glances behind and sees Mark’s steps are slow and tired, he knows Mark is too fatigued to offer much resistance. He slows and falls in step with Mark without a word. Mark sends him what was probably meant as a glare but comes off as a blurry squint. It’s kind of all sorts of adorable and Eduardo has to remind himself of the awkward situation and no, laughing would be really bad, he doesn’t want to explain that (and Mark isn’t adorable. Mark is a horrible, mean, insensitive jerk. And if Eduardo was still five years old, also a poopy-head).

Mark almost walks into a glass door but catches himself and takes two tiny half-steps back (okay, maybe Mark is adorable. Still a jerk though).

They settle into the car without a word. Mark sinks into the passenger’s seat and leans his head against the back as if he finally realized how tired he was. Eduardo starts the car and backs up when Mark makes a confused noise in the back of his throat. He looks over at him.

“Your seatbelt.” Mark points his finger and he’s frowning.

Eduardo curses in his head and buckles quickly. He used to always get on Mark’s case for not buckling his seatbelt, but with high-speed chases and every-second-counts getaways, Eduardo has gotten in the habit of forgoing the safety device (he goes at speeds so fast that it wouldn’t make a difference anyway). He lets out a little awkward laugh. “Guess I’m a bit tired too,” he offers and hopes Mark forgets the slip (but Mark’s brain is a computer and that’s hardly likely).

He does, however, remember to ask how to get to Mark’s house (which he already knows in case the threat against Facebook became a threat against Mark. Which is ridiculous because a threat against Facebook _is_ a threat against Mark. Not that the idiots at headquarters understand that). He resists a fist pump of victory for remembering how to do his job. He really is a fantastic agent, he commends himself in the silence of the car ride.

The drive is short and they arrive at Mark’s house quickly. It’s a comfortable home, large enough to be roomy but by no means extravagant. Eduardo likes it (it brings to mind sleepy Sunday mornings and leftovers Tuesdays). He wonders how Mark decided on it, since he can’t envision Mark would care if it reminded anyone of sleepy Sundays or any other idealized fantasies Eduardo has always kept quiet in his mind.

“It was close and not flashy,” Mark answers, like he was reading Eduardo’s thoughts.  
Eduardo jumps and realizes he had been staring at the house, half his body still in the car. He clears his throat and exits the vehicle. “It’s nice.”

Mark looks at him, the seconds ticking away in some other dimension. “Thanks,” he finally answers, walking up the steps to the door. He pauses and turns around to stare at Eduardo again.

Eduardo frowns. “What?”

“You have my keys?”

“Oh.” Shit. Well. He hums in embarrassment and trots to the door, climbing the steps two at a time. Instead of handing Mark his keys back, he unlocks the door himself and lets Mark in to turn off the security. He closes the door softly behind him and scans the area with the speed and efficiently he learnt in his various assignments, committing the layout and fixtures to memory.

“What are you doing?”

Eduardo somehow manages to maintain a neutral expression, belying the rapid increase in his heart rate (Mark doesn’t know, does he? No, he couldn’t. Shit, he could. Mark is like magic sometimes). “Hmm?”

“Why are you following me?”

He gives him a look of patronizing censure as his heartbeat slows down to a normal pace. “Because if I don’t literally see you to bed, you’ll end up coding all night and this whole exercise will be moot.”

Mark takes an odd breath, like he was interrupted mid-intake. “You…” He stuffs his hands in his hoodie and holds Eduardo’s gaze (they’re doing it again). “You’re insane. You might think I don’t know much about human behavior, but I observe a fucking lot. I invented Facebook for fuck’s sake. This isn’t normal behavior.”

Eduardo nods but he’s stopped listening and is lightly prodding Mark up the stairs to his room. He doesn’t stop to think about the warmth seeping through Mark’s hoodie onto his fingers (hot, his fingers burn and tingle with a poison he will never grow immune to), or how domestic and familiar this all feels (guiding Mark to bed after a coding binge, falling into bed beside him to make him _stay_ , waking up with legs entwined, both pretending to still be asleep for another hour).

Mark has stopped his not-quite rant by the time they enter his room (spacious with a large bed and essential fixtures but hardly a touch of personality to be seen) and shrugs out of his hoodie, flinging it to the ground carelessly before crawling into bed. He doesn’t bother to undress but Eduardo lets it go because he’s already in clothes similar to pajamas anyway (who wears sweats to work? Seriously appalling).

Eduardo picks up the discarded hoodie and folds it over a chair before he walks to the nightstand beside the bed and drops Mark’s keys on it. “I’m leaving your keys here. Make sure to sleep at least until seven. And shower when you get up, please.” He pulls out his phone and starts to leave the room. “Goodnight,” he says out of habit.

“There’s a guest bed.”

He stills but does not turn around. He can’t have heard right. “’Cuse me?”

“Down the hall, on the right. The bed is probably made up, but if not there’s a closet…somewhere with sheets.”

He spins on his heel and stares incredulously at Mark. “I’m not staying the night.”

Mark lifts himself up on his elbows, and frown creasing his brow. “You’re not?”

“No. We’re not – ” _friends_ , he almost says but catches himself. “I have to get back.”

Mark’s frown deepens and he’s scowling. “How are you getting home?”

Eduardo waves his phone. “Cab.” It was only because of years (seriously, fucking _years_ ) of combat training and running on instinct and acting in a split second that he catches the keys Mark so unceremoniously threw (right at his _face_ ).

“Take my car.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, stares down at the keys in his hand, then back at Mark. “Wh...How will you get to work tomorrow?”

Mark adjusts the pillows behind his head and shifts beneath the covers. “You’ll drive me.”

“Wha-what? I’m not, what. The fuck, Mark. I’m not driving you to work.”

“Why not? You drove me home.” He slumps back into the bed and pulls the covers over his shoulders to tuck under his chin. “’Night, Wardo.”

He hates that he doesn’t have a retort. He hates that Mark does this to him. He hates his incessant need to continue, to put himself in this position over and over because he hates himself, apparently. Mark is right, he needs to get a therapist (he hates it when Mark is right. He used to love it, because it meant he was on the winning team and he could watch everyone around him in awe and he was _best friends_ with the guy who was so brilliant, a bona fide genius. But now it all it means is that Eduardo is wrong, again, always, forever). He settles for a frustrated groan and rubs his hands over his face. “Why can’t anything be easy with you, Mark?”

“If it was easy it wouldn’t mean anything.”

He doesn’t want to touch that, doesn’t want to analyze it and overthink it and dissect it (and make it into more than a sleepy retort from a man with little regard for social convention. Seriously, how can he _say_ things like that when they’re…whatever they are). He scowls one last time at Mark’s still form on the bed. “I’ll be here at eight. _Shower_.”

“This is so screwed up,” he mutters to himself repeatedly on the drive back to his house, studiously ignoring the warm scent of Red Vines and new plastic and what is essentially _Mark_ that is prevailing on his baser senses.

&&&

Sabrina is in the backyard when he finally reaches base. He can hear her punishing some poor tree or punching bag or something. He approaches her tentatively because it’s dark and late and she’s in the zone (and even if she does realize it’s him, she might just throw a punch his way anyway. He grimaces but admits he kind of deserves it).

“Rina,” he calls from what he thinks is a safe distance.

She glares over her shoulder but does not stop her assault on the free standing punching bag. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Still mad?”

“Have you apologized yet?”

He pouts because he hates to apologize first. It’s like admitting he was wrong (he was). “Sorry,” he mutters.

She seems to accept it (paltry as it was). “Spar with me.”

He raises his brows.

“Luke here isn’t putting up much of a fight,” she says, referring to the punching bag they named Luke (Eduardo and Yolanda refer to him as the Dark Sith Lord Luke, but Dave insists Luke would have a new name if he was a Sith Lord. “No one called Darth Vader Sith Lord Anakin.”). “I need to work off some energy.” She beckons him closer. “Come on, spar.”

He places his phone and keys by the patio window and stretches quickly. “Don’t touch the face. This,” he twirls a finger at his face, smiling seductively, “has gotten us out of a lot of trouble.”

She rolls her eyes. “These,” she lifts her breasts briefly, “have gotten us out of more.”

“Yolanda’s are bigger. I mean, yours are nice, but hers are like,” he exhales and cups his hands in front of his chest, “magnificent.”

“You’re going to die.”

He barks out a laugh. “Eventually.”

They spar, quick hits and sleek maneuvers. Eduardo can’t remember the last time he felt so challenged in a one-on-one fight. Sabrina doesn’t have as much strength but she’s far more strategic and agile than him. It’s like her mind and body meld together as one in a fight and the moment a thought occurs to her, she acts. Eduardo relies more on instinct. He shuts his mind down and just feels, flows. Which is how Sabrina managed to out move him and he landed flat on his back, breath choked from his lungs.

She smiles smugly and collapses next to him on the grass, gulping in air rapidly. “You suck.”

He just moans because he hasn’t gotten his voice back yet.

They stare at the sky for a few minutes until both their heart rates slow to a relaxed pace. She turns her head to stare sideways at him. “Hey, where were you so late at night?”

“I went for a run. Wound up at Facebook.”

She hums. “Get any new leads?”

“No, just drove Mark home.” He doesn’t know why he told her that. It’s not like he wants to broadcast the very odd behavior he was exhibiting tonight. But he had always been extremely honest with Sabrina (he found out early on that if he wasn’t, they would both get hurt in the field. So he said a wistful farewell to his filter around her).

She sits up on her elbows and looks alarmed. “You engaged the target without backup? Without even _informing_ me?”

He curls his upper lip in distaste. “Mark isn’t the target.”

“Zuckerberg is part of the target.”

“He’s not. He’s just…” He sighs and stares up blankly in silence. “It’s complicated.”

“Hey. Are you okay?”

And he must be losing it if _Sabrina_ is asking about his well-being.

“You’ve been acting weird. Tense. Dave’s really worried, you know.”

“And you’re sure it isn’t you that’s worried about me?”

She glares. “Why would I care about you? I just, you know, care about the team dynamics.” She clears her throat. “But you’re okay, right? You can handle this.”

He closes his eyes and nods. “Yeah. I can handle this.” He can handle seeing Mark every day, can handle driving him and making him sleep and monitoring his health (but he can’t handle Mark’s eyes and voice and scent that can simultaneously suffocate and comfort him).

He feels a cool hand pat his lying flat on the grass. “You’re not nineteen anymore. You should show them that.”

He opens his eyes and stares.

“Your persona isn’t who you used to be. It’s who you are now.” She shakes her head. “Come on, Saverin. This assignment is a cake walk.” She stands and stretches her arms over her head. “I need to get some sleep. I have an interview in the morning.”

“Make sure you ace it, Rina. I need you in the office.”

She smirks. “Who could say no to this face?”

“I thought it was your breasts?”

She kicks him lightly in the stomach and he clutches it in mock pain. “You made it clear Yolanda has that particular asset.”

“No, no. _You_ have the nice ass.” He quirks his mouth to the side. “Though I do think Dave’s is a bit better than yours.”

The kick this time is real and he has to lie on the ground for a couple minutes before following her back inside.

&&&

In the morning, he arms himself with coffee and bagels and a couple apples (because he’s pretty sure Mark hasn’t seen a piece of fruit in months). Yolanda is grinning at him from the other side of the kitchen, like she knows something he doesn’t (like she thinks something that didn’t happen).

“What?” he asks because he can’t resist, even if he knows this will be wrong, so wrong.

“Hmm?” She continues to grin at him. “Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Why are you driving Mark’s car?” she asks in a sing-song voice.

He points his finger at her. “No. No, I’m not getting into this with you.”

She pouts. “Why not?”

“No. Respect your superiors, Yolanda.” He walks briskly to the door.

“Why do you have a hickey on your neck?”

He skids to a stop and his upper body folds over a bit in inertia. He whips his head over his shoulder, eyes wide. “What?”

Yolanda grins even wider and skips up to him. She taps two fingers against his neck and he feels a shot of pain when she applies pressure. “You’ve got a bruise there.” She peers closer and her grin falters a bit. “But looking at it closely, it’s oddly shaped. What kind of weird mouth does Mark have?” She gasps and places a hand over her mouth before leaning close to him and whispering, “Is he a vampire?”

He backtracks to the fridge (which has a reflection so pristine it’s almost a mirror). He sees a dark bruise on the side of his neck, near the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He curses. “Sabrina must have hit me there last night.”

Yolanda gapes at him. “You slept with _Sabrina_?” She looks appalled and slightly hurt. “What about Mark?”

“No, I did not sleep with Sabrina,” he grits out quickly between his teeth. He adjusts his shirt collar to try to hide the mark. Then he pauses and shoots her a glare. “And what does that have to do with Mark?”

“He wants in your pants.”

“What?” His voice is higher than it should be.

She rolls her eyes and pats his shoulder. “I watch the video surveillance.”

He points his finger at her again. “No. This discussion ends here.” Sabrina trudges into the kitchen, yawning and stretching her hands above her head, a very convenient target for Eduardo’s ire. “You! I told you not to hurt the merchandise.”

She tilts her head and blinks at him. “What the hell is he talking about?” she directs to Yolanda.

Yolanda points to Eduardo’s neck and tsks. “You gave the poor boy the closest thing to a hickey he’s sported in years.”

Sabrina leans forward for a second, then bursts out in laughter. “That is amazing!”

Eduardo stares at them both and feels his authority as leader slipping away (it was never there to begin with but he likes to lie to himself sometimes). “I hate you both.”

&&&

He arrives at Mark’s sharply at eight. Mark is showered and dressed in clean clothes and looks refreshed and almost happy (there are ghosts of a smile and a light that flickers in his eyes. Eduardo remembers now that Mark’s eyes expressed more in a split second than his entire body ever could). He feels a weight lift off his shoulders (because okay, maybe he was concerned about Mark for a bit. But it was for the operation. Mark is Facebook and Facebook is officially a protected entity of the Central Intelligence Agency. Yup.)

Mark reaches for the coffee but Eduardo hands him an apple instead. “Vitamins first, then caffeine,” Eduardo informs him with a mock stern expression, crunching into his own apple.

Mark stares at him for a couple moments (but it’s not at his eyes now, so he doesn’t know what to do) and his pupils seem to grow a little wider. Eduardo shifts his feet and wipes the apple juices off his mouth with the back of his hand. This seems to jolt Mark back to reality and he glances down at the apple before biting into it with a little roll of his eyes.

“Good?” Eduardo’s eyes twinkle a little at how obliging Mark has been this morning.

“It’s an apple. They all taste the same.”

Eduardo makes a face. “Hardly.”

They talk for a few minutes more about safe, innocuous topics (which aren’t the normal types of harmless topics. Weather, for instance, is strictly avoided because any mention of rain in California will lead to unpleasant memories). They talk about computers and math and Mark lights up when he starts explaining his newest idea for an update. Eduardo listens, drawn in and fascinated (and whether it is because he’s genuinely excited for Facebook or if he can’t help but be enthralled when Mark gets like this, he has never been able to tell. Probably a combination of both).

Eduardo’s phone pings an alarm that alerts them it is time to leave so they reluctantly throw out the remnants of their breakfast and take their coffee to go. They settle in the car easily (this time Mark is driving). Eduardo and Mark both reach to put their coffee in the cup holders at the same time and their hands brush lightly. Eduardo intakes a sharp breath and feels a flush work up his neck (the act is more intimate than it should be. A mere brushing of hands and his body rebels against his mind. Okay, well, maybe his mind is rebelling a bit too and remembering when he would tug at Mark’s hand to bring him closer on the couch). He feels like a fucking Victorian (but Victorians didn’t fantasize about almost kisses and gasping your best friend’s name into your pillow when you jerked off).

He manages to withdraw his hand without spilling his coffee and reaches for the seatbelt, smiling apologetically at Mark who seems unaffected by the entire sequence. His fingers fumble a bit so he has a good excuse to turn away and crane his neck to locate the damn thing. He finally finds it and clicks the device into place. When he looks over to his left, Mark’s eyes have narrowed and there’s a dark contortion on his features.

Mark continues to glower until Eduardo finally says, “What?”

He ignores Eduardo and pulls out of the driveway (a little faster and a lot less smoothly than Eduardo would have imagined).

&&&

If anyone notices that Mark and Eduardo arrive together, _in the same car_ , they don’t mention it (they notice. Dustin practically has his face infused with the glass watching them pull up to the parking area). But Mark sends a clear “if you mention this, you’re fired and you’ll never find another job so help me I will get my revenge” message when he all but storms to his office (because Mark is a five-year-old boy and suddenly Eduardo feels really good about his own sometimes shaky level of maturity).

Mark seems content to stay in his office all day, and Eduardo cannot decide if he’s relieved or disappointed (and his head is really in a weird place right now, this cannot be happening. He does _not_ miss Mark. Not at all. Right?). Thankfully, Chris comes to distract him at lunch with a bag of Chinese take-out.

“Hey, I thought you might be hungry,” Chris says from the door frame, holding the proffered food.

Eduardo breaks into a grin. “Yes, thank you, you’re amazing.” He alights from his chair and usurps the bag, sniffing greedily at the opening. He gleefully clears his desk and arranges the cartons strategically for the best eating experience, waving Chris to sit beside him in the guest chairs.

Chris smiles and sits beside him, reaching for the ginger beef. Eduardo slaps his hands with his recently procured chopsticks. He points them at Chris sternly. “Ginger beef is mine.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “You’re worse than Dustin.”

Eduardo feigns outrage before swallowing a mouthful of beef and rice and all things good in the world. Chris asks him how his work is going and Eduardo has to make up some story about how the data isn’t cooperating and he needs to run algorithm and he hopes Chris doesn’t figure out he’s just making stuff up as he goes along (but Chris was an Arts major so he thinks he’s safe).

The cartons are all picked over and cooling significantly, and their conversation is flowing easily and naturally (they’ve moved on to favorite movie quotes, somehow), when Chris’s phone chimes. Chris continues to speak (“No, seriously, nothing will ever top Inigo Montoya. I can’t believe I even have to justify this!”) and pulls the phone out, glancing down at the text he got. He stops talking and clears his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable and just a little harassed.

“So, um. What quotes does your…” Chris groans and rubs his face, slumping against the chair.

“Chris?” Eduardo asks, leaning forward in concern. “You okay?”

“No, not really,” he whines. “To be honest, I didn’t just show up with Chinese food out of the goodness of my heart. I was sent here to find out certain information.”

Eduardo stiffens inwardly but maintains an outward appearance of natural curiosity. Years of training. Years. “And that information would be?”

Chris peeks his eyes hesitantly over to Eduardo. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Eduardo opens his mouth to answer no, no he does not. He’s a fucking spy, the occupation doesn’t exactly lend itself to commitment and sustainability. But then he remembers he’s not Eduardo Saverin: CIA Agent. He’s Eduardo Saverin: Facebook Co-Founder/Entrepreneur/Guy With All the Crazy Ass Girlfriends (it’s not the first time he forgot he was acting. He’s not even sure he should be acting. This is more confusing than he cares to think about). So he lets his mouth hang open while he tries to formulate an answer.

Chris interprets this as Eduardo being aghast and hastily offers, “I’m so sorry. I tried to avoid this whole thing but you know how difficult he can be. He just wouldn’t leave me alone until I found out – ”

Eduardo manages to snap his mouth shut and he raises his left brow indignantly. “Who is ‘he’?”

“Nothing, no one, I didn’t say he, did I say he? I should go.” Chris stands but Eduardo extends his leg, effectively trapping him between Eduardo and the desk.

“Fess up.”

“Dustin?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, did Mark put you up to this?” He clenches and unclenches his hands, fury building behind his expressive eyes. “That socially incompetent little – ” His phone chirps and he blindly grabs at it out of habit. He’s still spurting in agitation when he reads the text from Dave.

_Security leak in sector fourteen. Could be mole._

He swears and grabs his blazer jacket hanging on his chair. He looks up and realizes Chris is still there, staring at him in concern. Crap.

“Ah, it’s fine. I – ” He needs an excuse. He needs to get out and to sector fourteen (which is way way way across the building and he’ll have to run if he has any hope of catching the mole in the act). He can’t think of an excuse, he’s drawing a blank. Shit, he’s good at excuses. What the hell is wrong with him. “I, uh, have. I think I left my phone in the break room.”

Chris furrows his brow. “The phone you’re holding in your hand.”

Crap. “Um, no, my old phone?” he ends it like a question and curses fluently in Portuguese in his head. “I have two phones. For business and personal use. Yeah. Yeah.”

Chris is staring at him like he’s grown two heads (maybe he has. He could star in the medical journals. It would be brilliant). He high-tails it over to sector fourteen before he grows a third one.

He dials Dave’s number as he skirts around the offices, galloping down a flight of stairs. “Talk to me, Dave.”

“A feed has been streaming to an external source for about three minutes. The good news is that it’s slow. Bad news is I can’t track the destination.”

“Where’s it located?”

“Um, from my calculations, it’s a computer in the marketing conference room. Port number three.”

He slows down as he approaches the marketing department. “Stand by,” he tells Dave and slips the phone into his front pocket without disconnecting the call. He steps carefully toward the conference room, padding his footsteps so that he does not make a sound. He scans the halls and adjacent rooms and committing the members to memory in case the mole has just left the room. He quickly evaluates what weapons he has at his immediate disposal. He has a small revolver strapped to his right calf under his suit pants. He has two knives sheathed and secured to his lower back. And he has a ball point pen (with blue ink) in his suit pocket.

When he is satisfied that he has memorized the layout, he peers into the conference room. He performs a rapid scan of the room but it is disappointingly empty. He makes a face but heads to the computer marked “PORT THREE” and reaches for his phone again.

“Dave, no one’s here but the computer is still running data.”

Dave takes him through step-by-step how to put a tracer on the outputs. He understands about half of it but Dave is skilled at direction and Eduardo follows along without much difficulty.

“Okay, it’s in place,” Dave says, and Eduardo can hear a little smile of triumph in his voice. “Depending on how many misdirections they have in place, we should have their destination in about two minutes.”

Eduardo nods even though he knows Dave can’t see him. Once they have the destination, finding the mole will be child’s play and he will be out of the country almost immediately. No more Facebook, no more Mark. He feels just the slightest bit disappointed.

Eduardo jumps when he hears rapid footsteps approaching the conference room and immediately drops his phone under the table. He starts to peer around like he is looking for something when Dustin enters the room, huffing a little over his rare running excursion.

Dustin makes a startled noise when he sees Eduardo. “Huh?!”

Eduardo widens his eyes in genuine surprise. “Dustin, hi, uh…”

“What are you doing here? This is the marketing department.”

“I lost my phone.” He pretends to look around before bending and picking it up. “Here it is.” He laughs awkwardly and prays he is convincing.

Dustin furrows his brow. “Why was your phone here to begin with?”

“I…right. It was, uh.” Eduardo clears his throat. “Dustin, what, what are you doing here?” Misdirection training at its finest.

Dustin tenses slightly. “I, uh. There’s a problem with one of the computers here.” He steps quickly to the computer at port three and starts typing frantically on the keyboard. “Shit.”

Eduardo doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Of course Facebook would detect a leak in its security. Eduardo quickly disconnects his call to Dave and texts him instead.

_Abort trace._

Dave texts back quickly. _Already working on it. Need you to stall._

Eduardo grimaces but takes a deep breath and reminds himself this is his job. “They, uh, they sent you to deal with a little IT problem?”

Dustin lifts his head and darts his eyes to Eduardo. He looks guilty and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, you know, I don’t like to delegate.”

“Since when?”

“Since now!” Dustin cringes at his raised voice. “Sorry, it’s just. We’ve been having a few problems with leaks and – ” he sighs and Eduardo feels incredibly guilty for his role in the matter. “Sorry. We’re all a little stressed about it.”

“Does Mark know?”

Dustin virtually whimpers. “Unfortunately.” He turns back to the computer and continues to type, hands flying over the keyboard. “There’s a leak right now and I’m trying to shut it down before Mark hears about it.”

Eduardo makes affirmative noises and texts Dave again. _Done yet???_

_We’re in the clear,_ he answers back. Then a few seconds later, _& y do u suddenly suck @ ur job???_

Eduardo makes a startled noise, staring at his phone (because a) he does not suck at his job, b) since when did Dave talk to him like that?, and c) he has never ever seen Dave use chat speak. Dave’s a bit of a purist). Thankfully Dustin is too busy trying to stop the threat (before Mark goes on a rampage, locks down the building, and personally interrogates everyone present) to notice Eduardo’s shocked and slightly hurt countenance.

He rapidly shoots back a text, _I do not suck at my job. And what’s up with you?_

_then y do all ur excuses suck balls? & ive always been like this_

Then a few seconds later he gets another text from Sabrina’s cell. _Sorry sorry sorry, this is Dave. Sabrina stole my phone. Sorry!!_

Eduardo tsks under his breath and types out another text lightning fast to Dave’s phone. _Stop torturing Dave. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your interview?_

_they should b getting ready 4 me_

Eduardo smiles and starts to type out a new response when he notices Dustin has stopped typing and is staring at him (like really _staring_ and there’s this look on his face between delight and officiousness). “What?”

Dustin hems and shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing really.” He leans closer and can’t help the tug of his lips. “Is that your girlfriend?”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows (and maybe his face is a bit hotter because no one has asked so much about his dating life until this very day).

“Is she from the area? Did you come out here for her? Does this mean you’re back for good?” Dustin looks delighted.

Eduardo knows big denials are the least believed. He knows this very well. He’s seen it happen in real life. Fucking Shakespeare wrote about it. So when he flails his hands in frustration and groans, stammering out a very large and drawn out _no_ , he lies to himself (he denied the girlfriend thing very subtly. Yup. Subtle). “No, no, I don’t – why does everyone think I have a girlfriend?”

Dustin pouts (actually _pouts_ ). “But Ma – ”

Eduardo cuts him off. “Tell Mark he doesn’t have to worry about my crazy ass girlfriend burning down the Facebook office, okay?” He storms out, calling over his shoulder. “And Mark should mind his own damn business.”

“I thought you guys were talking again!” Dustin shouts back.

Eduardo thinks he hears “Bunch of fucking babies!” but he ignores it and heads back to his office, hopefully empty and sans-Chris by now.

&&&

Eduardo manages to avoid human contact the rest of the day and is able to calm his frustrations with the failed trace (and failed…Mark…something). They almost had it, but operations were rarely that easy and clean-cut. He would just have to refocus his energy and attention on finding the mole when he or she was inactive.

He’s formulating strategies on a notepad (all in code, obviously. He isn’t an idiot) when he glances up and sees Sabrina with two managers (one he recognizes from the programming department and one he thinks works in human resources). The managers are showing her stations and introducing her to key people. She’s nodding emphatically, a pleasant and professional smile adorning her lips (he can practically _hear_ her cheeks cracking under the pressure. She only smiles on missions. Her natural countenance is a smirk).

He tilts his head and considers her. She’s gone with stylish and outgoing if her red stilettos are anything to go by. She looks out-of-place in an office filled with hoodies and flip-flops, but that’s what she wants. She wants to draw attention to herself and away from him so he can do the job they sent him here to do. He feels a burst of affection for her (to have someone place themselves in a precarious situation, to have someone to rely on, he appreciates and treasures it now instead of expecting it) and he grins lazily at her when her glance falls on him through his office windows.

She maintains her professional air, but he can see her smile brighten just the smallest bit. The human resources manager seems to have noticed as well, because she whispers something to Sabrina and they both laugh a little.

The rest of the day goes by smoothly and he even manages to finalize his next strategy (the initial look at all employee’s bank accounts did not turn up anything suspicious. He’s decided to look at significant others and family members’ accounts and cross reference to the employee’s computer log-ins. It’s a much better plan than wait and hope the mole shows up. That wasn’t working very well). He notes it’s already six and he should be heading home to brief the team (and maybe chastise Sabrina for torturing poor Dave).

He stretches and grabs his suit jacket, placing his laptop in his bag and pushes out of his office, locking it behind him. He gets about three feet away from his office when the receptionist they loaned him rushes up to him.

“Mr. Saverin!” he exhales, his expression a little frazzled.

“Yes, Scott?”

“Are you heading home now?”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows but nods slowly. “Yes. I thought I would. It being the end of the day and all.”

Scott laughs absently and nods. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. But there’s, um, I have some papers for you to sign.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, no, I need them today.”

Eduardo frowns but extends his hand. “Alright, hand them over.”

“Oh, uh, they’re on my desk.”

He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t bring them?” He’s suspicious now because from what he knows of Scott, the receptionist is extremely capable and on top of things. Something isn’t right.

“Yeah, sorry.” Scott hits his forehead. “Doh, right?” More awkward laughter. “So why don’t you go back to your office and I’ll go grab the papers and then you can be on your way.”

Eduardo purses his lips. “How about I leave now and you put the papers on my desk and I’ll sign them first thing tomorrow morning? It’s already past six – past nine on the east coast. You can’t need it signed _right now_.”

Scott’s face falls and he’s starting to panic (his eyes dart back and forth and Eduardo can see him trying to find a logical argument against what he said). He leans forward and looks up pleadingly at Eduardo. “Can you just do me a really big favor and wait in your office for like five minutes?”

Eduardo leans down to level with Scott. “Why do you want me to wait so badly?”

Before Scott has a chance to answer, Eduardo can hear hurried clumping sounds of flip-flops on the stairs and he sees Scott’s relax in relief. Eduardo knows who is behind him before he turns around, but he needs to confirm it. He turns just in time to watch Mark almost trip and stumble forward a few steps, skidding to an awkward halt a couple inches into Eduardo’s personal bubble (because despite what others might think, he _does_ know what a personal bubble is. He just usually forgoes it in favor of the ease of friendly contact. Mark lost that privilege a long time ago).

Eduardo doesn’t have to worry about it too long, though, since Mark has to look up to see Eduardo and hastily takes a few steps back (Mark never really liked to be reminded of the height difference between them. He was always finding ways to compare the two of them, to find a difference and try to outdo Eduardo, like if he wasn’t _better_ , Eduardo wouldn’t be around anymore).

Eduardo decides he wants to see where Mark is going to go with this so he remains unhelpfully silent, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. Mark shuffles his feet and clears his throat before saying in the worst affectation of a casual tone Eduardo has witnessed, “You’re heading home now?”

Eduardo nods but still remains silent.

Mark nods with him. “Yeah, I was thinking of heading out, too.”

 

This Eduardo knows is a lie. Mark has to be dragged kicking and screaming from his computer. He raises his brow in mock surprise, still painfully silent. He’s starting to enjoy this.

“Why don’t I, uh, drive you home? You know, since you don’t have your car here.” Mark looks a little proud of himself, like he’s five and he just made a sandwich for the first time _all by himself_. It’s deplorably adorable and Eduardo has the bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

He manages to get a hold of his facial muscles (which is surprisingly difficult) and returns to a neutral expression. “No, I’m going to walk.” He shoots Mark a confined smile. “But thank you, though,” he adds as an afterthought.

He circumvents Mark but is stopped with a hand on his arm. “It’s really no trouble.”

Eduardo presses his lips together in a thin line but manages not to jerk away from Mark’s hand (hot and tight and sending so many sensations through the fabric of his suit). “I can walk. It’s not far.”

They lock eyes and the area has achieved a rare heavy hush of silence. They’re both aware of it but Eduardo for the life of him cannot ( _will not_ ) look away. “Let me drive you,” Mark repeats in a deceptively neutral tone.

Eduardo flits his eyes over Mark’s face, shifting back and forth rapidly, trying to capture and analyze every small detail, every minute divergence. Mark is firm but his face is soft and almost vulnerable (if he was anyone other than Mark Zuckerberg). But his eyes are confident (not cocky or arrogant like he’s seen far too many times, has played in his head and hyperbolized until they were caricatures of the man he used to know).

He must have made a sign of affirmation in the ensuing moments of intense study because Mark lets out small happy breath and tugs Eduardo’s arm to the exit.

And Eduardo lets him (because he wants to see those eyes focused on him again, in confidence and assurance and recognition, if only for a moment).

&&&

It isn’t until they reach the parking garage that Eduardo notices Mark’s hand is still on his sleeve (touching lightly now, guiding, tentative and soft and everything that Mark is not). He moves away from him (putting a considerable distance between them is harder than he thought. For years he assumed it was all _his_ effort to stick close to Mark. He’s starting to realize Mark might have been more active than passive in that regard. It’s humbling and unnerving and Eduardo isn’t quite sure what to make of it).

They settle into Mark’s car for the third time in twenty-four hours. Eduardo sighs and wonders how this became his life. Shouldn’t he be taking down terrorist groups (or at the very least, seducing beautiful women for information)? He glances sideways at Mark. Maybe he’ll have to seduce Mark. He widens his eyes when the thought occurs to him and shakes his head. No, not thinking about that. Nope.

Mark looks at him expectantly.

Eduardo wonders if Mark can read minds now but he represses the flush on his neck as much as he can and clears his throat. “What?”

“I need your address.”

“Oh. Right.” Eduardo punches the address into the car’s GPS system (some state-of-the-art innovation Eduardo is sure isn’t even on the market yet). The moment he presses ENTER, though, his muddled mind finally manages to inform him that Mark is driving him home. To base. Where he has two women and one very adorable young man living with him (and Hugo might even be over there too).

_Shit._

“You know, on second thought, I really think I’ll walk.” He reaches to unbuckle his seatbelt but Mark locks the doors and is staring at him with those piercing blue eyes (he wishes that was a cliché, but Mark’s eyes really do pierce. Right through his eyes and into his heart, stabbing and patching it back together just to stab at it once again).

Mark shrugs his head slightly. “I said I’ll drive you.” And with that he apparently decided the conversation was over because he starts to pull out of his parking space and Eduardo is reaching frantically for his cell phone.

_code green, ten min tops_ , he types silently, staring straight ahead and hiding his phone behind his right thigh. He prays it isn’t laundry day, because Yolanda tends to leave her bras drying in the yard (she says something about fresh air being good for her breasts but he usually tunes her out by that time). He looks over to his left, ascertains that Mark is focused on the road and has not yet detected his texting. He sends another. _take evrythg w u_

It only takes his mind about twenty seconds (his responses are improving. Very good sign) after he hits SEND and has safely secured his phone back into his pocket that he realizes his team could probably misinterpret that text. Code green stands for full evacuation. “Take everything with you” could result in them gutting the entire house. His mind bounces between two worst-case scenarios: Mark finding an entire fucking family living with him, or Mark finding Eduardo’s house (the one he’s supposed to have been living in for at least a week now) completely empty.

But he can’t really focus on formulating any excuses right now because Mark is talking to him (what is Mark talking to him about?).

“Sorry, what?”

Mark makes a face but keeps his eyes on the road. “I asked how your family was doing. It’s a common question used to engage a comfortable feeling from the respondent. People like to talk about their family. How’s your family?”

Eduardo rubs his hand over his forehead. “I haven’t talked to my father in months.” He hasn’t. He’s a bit too busy _saving the world_ to bother with his father’s patronizing comments (to be fair, his father technically is his patron, but the irony is entirely lost on him).

“Ah,” Mark says, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“My mother wants me to call more often. You know how it is.”

Mark nods, shifting his eyes sideways to peer at Eduardo quickly. “My mom asks about you sometimes.”

“Oh.” Eduardo isn’t really sure what that’s supposed to tell him, but he nods. “Tell her I’m fine. Doing great.”

“Okay.”

They drive in silence, the only noise from the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional sudden directions from the GPS system (loud and tinny and artificial).

“I didn’t mean it.”

Eduardo cranes his neck to his left. “Didn’t mean what?”

Mark is shifting his eyes more than the road requires and Eduardo can see his hands tighten on the wheel, tensing all the way up to his shoulders. “Last night. About your father. I didn’t mean it.”

Eduardo gapes his lips open in shock so long that his mouth starts to dry out. “Are you – ” He lets out a small breath that sounds similar to a subdued laugh. “Are you actually apologizing?”

Mark makes a noncommittal noise and shifts his head ever-so-slightly in a nod so miniscule that only Eduardo would consider it an actual movement. His hands are still tight on the wheel and Eduardo is starting to be concerned about his circulation.

Eduardo laughs, a little in disbelief, a little in awe, and a lot in amusement. “Mark Zuckerberg apologizing. Huh.” He nudges Mark’s shoulder with his hand. “Thank you.”

Mark jumps at the contact and swerves the car momentarily (but the road is clear and the atmosphere is pleasant so Eduardo doesn’t mention it). He can see Mark’s lips lift up slightly (not in a smile, because those are rare and have to be _earned_ ) that in Markism means happy.

They arrive too quickly at Eduardo’s house, the sudden ease and half-smiles they had shared seeps into the stilted uncertainty they have been dancing around for the last week.  
Mark pulls the car to a stop and unlocks the doors. Eduardo nods his thanks and exits the car. He breathes a little easier when he sees the house looks empty of only people and their personal effects. He turns to wave goodbye but Mark is already out of the car and walking up to the door.

“Mark?”

Mark ignores him and comes to a halt in front of the door. He tries the knob but finds it locked and turns to Eduardo, hands stuffed in his hoodie and an impatient expression on his face. “Well? Are you going to unlock the door or do I have to find an object around here to break your windows? I don’t think that would reflect very well on your insurance rates.”

“You…” Eduardo blinks and points at Mark. “You want to come in.”

“I thought that point had been made obvious.”

Eduardo scratches the back of his neck and half-grimaces. “And what, exactly, are you going to do? Once you come in.”

Mark shrugs his shoulders. “We could order Chinese. Watch a movie. Discuss how to take down Kim Jong Il.”

“You want to hang out.”

Mark just looks at him as if to say _duh_.

“We’re not friends anymore.” He has to say it, he can’t stop it from spilling out of his mouth. Because they aren’t _friends_ anymore.

“We’re not enemies.” There’s a hesitant quality in Mark’s voice, like he’s not entirely sure if what he said is the truth, but he took the risk anyway.

They’re at a precipice. If Eduardo denies this, there will be no room for anything else. They will be enemies for the rest of their lives. And he’s tired of hating, tired of being hurt and avoiding thinking about it and having to repress his memories (those fun and wild and precious times he should be able to fall back into when he’s in a bad situation). He lifts the corner of his mouth and nods. “I’ve already had Chinese today. Which was all your doing.” He holds his hand up when Mark starts to protest against his accusation. “No, we’re not going to talk about that. Ever.” He pauses as he walks to the door. “And stop using your employees as spies. Especially Chris.”

Mark shrugs. “I pay them, they should do what I want.”

“Don’t do it,” Eduardo repeats firmly like he had to so many times ( _“don’t hack the professor’s email, seriously Mark, you’ll get kicked out of Harvard.”_ ) and lightly nudges Mark out of the way so he can unlock the door. “I’ll make Italian.”

Mark bites his lip. “Whatever.”

Eduardo opens the door and gestures to Mark to enter.

“I pay them a fucking lot,” Mark adds as he passes him.

“Yes, yes. You’re an amazing boss, I’m sure.”

&&&

Eduardo cooks pasta and garlic bread and steams some frozen vegetables (which he insists Mark is going to eat). Mark retrieves his laptop from the car and sets it on the breakfast bar, coding while Eduardo chops and dices (and maybe twirls his knife a couple times because he can and he doesn’t want to get rusty. It has nothing to do with looking cool, okay?). They continue in relative silence, Mark’s typing and the sizzle of oil on the pan is far more pleasing than any music Eduardo can remember (but he’s always preferred the soundtrack of life, and no, that is not cheesy….

It’s a little cheesy. But maybe that’s okay, and maybe he can enjoy this, maybe for a little while).

His cell phone rings with multiple texts from Sabrina ( _im going 2 shop. im going 2 gym. im going 2 eat dnnr. u hve til then_ ), and Yolanda ( _!!!!_ and _Play nice! Or naughty. Do you like to play naughty? DETAILS LATER, YES???_ ), several from Dustin (of varying degrees of _DID MARK KIDNAP YOU? HE DID, DIDN’T HE? WARDO?_ ), and even from Hugo (he must be talking to Yolanda, the little blabber mouth).

Mark ignored the first few but finally lifts his head from his computer to raise his brows at Eduardo.

Eduardo smiles apologetically and shrugs, finally turning off the phone just as his director (the _director_ found out) sent him another text. “I’m a little busy sometimes.”

Mark purses his lips but seems satisfied that the phone is off now. He bends his head back to his screen.

When the food is done, they take it to the living room and Eduardo turns on the television. Mark usurps the remote control and fiddles with the settings, ones that Eduardo didn’t even know he had and doesn’t really notice the difference once they are adjusted to Mark’s satisfaction. Mark finds Eduardo’s Netflix subscription (which, wow, the CIA was really nice, setting him up with all that. He’d have to send the accommodations coordinator a thank you card or something) and they decide on _The Terminator_ (Eduardo vetoes _Star Wars_. “Bad associates...Associations!” he chokes out between giggles to a very confused Mark).

They don’t talk, just watch and laugh at the appropriate (and inappropriate) junctures. And maybe that was their problem to begin with, they relied so heavily on unspoken communications that when they finally articulated something, neither could understand it over the cacophony of intense looks and barely concealed frustrations. But for now, Eduardo decides it’s cathartic (and even enjoyable and fun in a way he thought was impossible with Mark at this point).

It’s almost identical to when they were at Harvard, but now there’s a charge, an underlying self-awareness that promises more than a simple plate of pasta and steamed vegetables and Arnold Schwarzenegger could ever hope to provide in principle. So when Mark slumps down in his seat – relaxed and pliant – and Eduardo throws his arm against the back of the sofa – fingers draping down to rest lightly on Mark’s shoulders – they reach a certain understanding. They’re not friends. But they’re so much more than the nothing they have been for years. They say in fluttered eyes and absence of fidgets more than words could ever form. They can’t go back, but they will move forward.

It’s enough to stick a slightly inane smile on Eduardo’s face (well, that and the way Mark’s eyes slip closed because he’s five and fell asleep during the movie).

They’re half-way through _The Terminator 2: Judgment Day_ when Mark jerks beside Eduardo. He blinks and takes a couple seconds to glance around, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

Eduardo glances at the clock and feels his heart rate spike. Sabrina and the gang will be back soon. He turns the movie off and switches a lamp on. “It’s late,” he offers.

Mark rubs his eye still. “Hmm?”

Eduardo starts to collect the plates. “We should probably call it a night.”

Mark stares at him with disquieting intensity but finally he seems to nod, stretching before lifting off the couch. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just use the bathroom first.”

Eduardo nods and heads to the kitchen. “Yeah, it’s right down the hall there.”

Mark heads to the hall. “Which door?”

Eduardo places the dishes on the counter and pokes his head around the door frame into the hall. His eyes widen and he feels a spike of adrenaline in his system when Mark reaches for the master bedroom door. With all the girly things. Like lotion, and make-up, and Sabrina’s panties. He shoots forward without a moment’s hesitation. He slides (literally fucking slides) down the hall and manages to squeeze between Mark and the door before Mark has opened it.

“Not, uh. Not this door.” Eduardo flattens his hands against the wood, trying to ease his intake of air, face mere inches from Mark now.

Mark stares at him unflinchingly. “What’s behind the door, Wardo?”

“Not the bathroom.”

Mark’s eyes narrow into deep blue slits but Eduardo holds his ground.

“Bathroom is the next door,” he breathes, nodding his head to the right.

Mark’s eyes flicker over his face, lingering in places they should not be lingering (and Eduardo’s face is hot and his breathing is getting worse, why can’t he calm the fuck down?). Mark shifts his feet and he’s even closer, any semblance of a personal bubble gone and vanished.

Eduardo’s lips are suddenly dry, very dry, how did they get so dry? He licks them unconsciously and before he even has a chance to place his tongue fully back in his mouth, Mark’s hand is on his jaw and his _thumb_ –

His thumb is brushing his bottom lip, slow and tugging a bit and Eduardo’s tongue sneaks back out just a millimeter and he can taste salt and a bit of pasta sauce and _Mark_ and it’s all dancing on his tongue and invading his blood.

Mark’s pupils are dilated and his entire focus is on him, on Eduardo, and it’s intoxicating. Eduardo forgot how to breathe a long time ago, forgot he had to breathe. Mark drags his thumb down, bringing Eduardo’s bottom lip down with it. Eduardo follows Mark’s movement with his head, bending to chase his thumb and Mark _smiles_. Full and wide and sparkling. It’s soft and sincere and adoring (that rare, almost nonexistent smile that has always been burned into Eduardo’s mind but it’s better, so fucking better than his memory ever allowed him to recall).

And it’s all for Eduardo, _because_ of Eduardo. He makes a low, keening sound in his throat and bends forward, leveling with Mark’s face –

Mark’s phone fractures the heavy air, thrilling sounds of the Super Mario Brothers. Mark jerks back and curses fluently, fishing it out of his pocket and glowering. “It’s Dustin,” he sneers, voice a little more hoarse than Eduardo ever remembers hearing it (and sending tingles and shudders down his body) and dark with promise of Dustin’s decapitation. But he answers it anyway because it might be important. He stalks over to the next door (to the _actual_ bathroom) and slams the door behind him.

Eduardo can hear him reaming Dustin out, but he just sags against the door behind him, suddenly grateful for the solid form of wood (it’s so nice and solid and how did his legs work before? He could swear he used to be able to stand on them properly). He rubs his hands over his face and stumbles into the kitchen, to the sink. He splashes cold water over his overheating face and remembers how to breathe.

“I’m dying,” he moans into the sink, slumping over the steel contraption. He hears Mark’s shuffling footsteps behind him and he straightens immediately, instinct kicking in and a mask over his body.

Mark stands at the doorway of the kitchen, scratching the back of his left hand idly. “So, um…”

“Yeah, goodnight. I’ll see you Monday,” Eduardo says quickly. He needs to sit down and stop looking at Mark and remember why he’s here in California to begin with (it has nothing to do with seducing Mark, he’s pretty sure. But it might have something to do with Mark seducing _him_ ).

Mark’s back straightens and he frowns (the smile, that rare and fleeting occurrence is long gone and Eduardo almost wonders if he ever really saw it to begin with). “Sure.” His voice is tense and he’s a bit jerky when he gathers his laptop.

Eduardo walks him to the door, keeping a safe distance of about three feet between them. He opens the door for Mark and nods goodnight. It isn’t until Mark has his hand on his car door that Eduardo calls out, impulsively (because he plans and overthinks and makes sure he’s prepared for every possibility except when it comes to life changing moments), “Let’s eat lunch together on Monday.”

Mark turns his head and his eyes are analyzing Eduardo again, sharp and intense and everything Eduardo has ever wanted.

“What time do you eat lunch?”

“Uh…I don’t know, one?”

Eduardo makes a face. “You don’t eat lunch, do you?”

Mark shrugs. “I never really notice.”

“When I come with food, then you’ll know to eat. Okay?”

Mark nods and quirks his lips in acknowledgement (it isn’t a smile but it’s close and Eduardo etches it with his eyes until he knows it’s carved behind his eyelids). Mark leaves and Eduardo slumps again, this time against the entryway wall.

He’s content to sit there and run his hands through his hair until his team shows up.

“Is lover boy gone?” Yolanda chirps, bending to level with Eduardo. “Hey, what’re you doing down here?”

“I’m dying.”

“What?! Wardo are you okay?” Dave is panicking (again. They really should get him some counseling or something. That can’t be good for his mental health). Dave bends and places a warm hand on his shoulder. “Wardo?”

Eduardo shakes his head and makes a whining sound. “I’m dyinggggggg.” He extends the word by about ten syllables and rubs his hand over his face for the umpteenth time that night.

“For fuck’s sake.” Sabrina kicks his shin. “He’s being a drama queen again.”

“DYING.”

Sabrina tugs Dave’s arm until he’s standing. She pushes him toward the guest room. “Don’t encourage him.”

“But Sabrina – ” Dave starts to protest but stops cold at her glare. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hey.” Yolanda shakes Eduardo’s arm. “Hey, what happened?” She looks entirely too delighted.

Eduardo stares at her, narrows his eyes, opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and closes it again. “Nope. Not up for discussion.”

“Why not?” Yolanda whines. She even kicks her legs in protest.

Eduardo struggles to his feet, wobbles for a split second, before finding his balance. He clears his throat and holds the back of his hand against his lips for a moment (like he’s trying to feel the heat of Mark’s thumb again). He drops his hand and smiles wistfully. “Because it’s mine.”

He walks off, ignoring Yolanda’s whining (“this is _so_ not fair”) and Sabrina’s sneers (“don’t you fucking get soft on me!”).

&&&

Eduardo manages to not die over the weekend, but somehow does not manage to avoid having a _Team Discussion_ about the varying levels of appropriateness he has been neglecting as of late. They’re in the living room on Sunday, the new status review from the director laying ignored on the table and Hugo munching on some kind of cracker or chip or something really, really loud in the kitchen.

Eduardo scowls across the room from his position in the reclining chair. “This feels like an intervention.”

“It is.” Yolanda flashes a smile, patting her hand over her crossed knee.

Sabrina sits on the couch arm closest to Eduardo and leans towards him. “Tomorrow morning I’ll start work at Facebook. We will work together, you will keep communication open, and you will stop _inviting the target on dates_.”

“One, it wasn’t a date.”

“Then why were you dying?” Yolanda wants to know.

He makes a vague disapproving hemming noise. “Unrelated toe-stubbing incident.”

“Please, even Dave doesn’t believe you.”

All three faces turn to look at Dave, who shoots his head up and stares wide-eyed at them. “Why are you looking at me? Stop looking at me!”

Yolanda snuggles closer to Dave on the couch. “You’re so adorable sometimes.”

Dave flushes and freezes, his entire body tense. “Please stop using me as a pillow.”

“How about no?”

Eduardo stands up (because now seems like a good time to leave, when they’re all distracted). Sabrina extends her foot, placing it on Eduardo’s shoulder and pushing down, forcing him back into the chair. He glowers at her.

“As I was saying,” Sabrina glares at Yolanda and tugs her off Dave. “Please remember your professionalism.” She turns back to Eduardo. “Yolanda told me about you and Mark. Way back when.”

Eduardo gapes at Yolanda. “You!”

Yolanda has the gall to shrug. “Team needs outweigh individual secrets.” She shook her head. “You’ve really been acting horribly not like yourself. We’re worried this assignment is too close to home for you.”

“This is nothing like how it was before with Mark, okay?” Mark never rubbed his thumb over his _mouth_ before. Eduardo flushes at the memory. “I know the line between my role and my job. I’m handling it.”

Sabrina looks like she wants to say more but Hugo (blessed Hugo who is almost too broad to fit through a proper doorframe) pops his head in. “Hey, you just about wrapped up here?”

Sabrina throws a rolled up magazine at him, hitting him squarely between his eyes. “Did I say we were done?”

Hugo rubs his nose. “Feisty.”

“I’m going to fucking kill something. OUT!”

Hugo retreats to the kitchen again (but not before waggling his eyebrows conspiratorially at an extraordinarily uncomfortable Dave).

Sabrina turns back to the matter at hand. “Somehow, the director has got it into his screwed up little red-tape, douchebag mind that you should get closer to Mark. He’s _pleased_ with your unsafe, unprofessional, and completely unscripted behavior.”

Eduardo flinches but remains silent.

“So you will do as the director mandates. But you need to keep me in the loop.” She leans forward more. “And let me know when your play-acting becomes real.”

“I think you should sleep with him,” Yolanda pips.

Dave stands abruptly. “Do I have to be here for this?”

Yolanda tugs him down by his wrist. “Sweetie. If you curled your hair, I’m sure Wardo wouldn’t mind going on a date with you, too.”

Eduardo makes a strangled sound and rubs his face. “I hate my life. I hate it.”

&&&

Sabrina integrates with great ease into the Facebook office. She settles in quickly and manages to complete both the work they dump on her (and for the rookie, it’s quite a lot) and the work she’s really there for. Eduardo can’t help but feel a little proud.

They set up their roles easily enough. On Monday morning Sabrina is pretending to be overwhelmed and lost in the offices, and Eduardo pretends he’s in a heated business discussion on his cell phone and paying little attention to where he’s headed. They collide in front of the entire accounting department, papers flying everywhere and Sabrina ends up sprawled on the floor.

Eduardo hastily hangs up (on Yolanda who manages to squeak in a short, “This is gonna be good!”) and runs an anxious hand through his hair. “Oh, I am so sorry!” He bends to level with Sabrina. “Are you okay?”

Sabrina rubs the small of her back and grimaces. “Yeah, I – oh crap, my papers!”

Eduardo stills her hand with his own and smiles at her. “Let me help you up.”

Sabrina seems to stop and take in just who she really ran into. She smiles coyly (she’s really playing it up this time. “I’m going for siren this time. If I wanted to snag myself a billionaire, I would totally play the siren.”) and accepts his hand. “Thank you,” she breathes.

Eduardo grins down at her. “My pleasure.”

She flips her hair over her shoulder and thrusts her chest out just the slightest bit (but Eduardo knows the drill so he lets his eyes fall to that region and lingers for a few seconds longer than he would have normally). “I’m Robin. Robin Choi. I work up in programming,” she points upwards to the floor above them.

“Eduardo Saverin.”

Her eyes go impressively wide and a wider smile creeps over her lips (he can almost see dollar signs in her eyes and he has to stop himself from laughing. They should sell tickets, Sabrina is _amazing_ ).

They collect her papers and he walks her up to her desk (the accountants got enough of a show, it’s time to put the performance on the road). They flirt and laugh and Sabrina places her hand on Eduardo’s arm and shoulder and chest, playfully hitting. Eduardo likes it, likes the human contact that has no meaning and no obligations. He likes to touch people, to flirt. He doesn’t get to do it very often but he thrives when he gets the chance (and it’s basically the only time Sabrina will ever compliment him. So he milks it for all he’s got).

“This is my desk,” Robin/Sabrina says, placing her papers down and smiling a little smugly at the person across from her desk.

Eduardo makes a small disappointed sound but pulls out her chair for her. She accepts with a throaty chuckle and peers up at him, angling her neck to emphasize her long throat and sharp collarbone. “I’m sorry for knocking you over,” he says, bending at the waist to lean closer.

“If you’re always there to help me up, I wouldn’t mind laying on my back half my life,” Sabrina offers back, fluttering her eyes.

_Overreaching_ , Eduardo warns with his eyes but Sabrina laughs at him, because she’s just starting to have fun. “So long, Ms. Choi.”

“Please, call me Robin. Or Gorgeous. Either works fine for me.”

Eduardo throws his head back and laughs. “What a coincidence. My name is _also_ Gorgeous.”

“We must be fated.”

“Hm, something like that.” He takes a few steps back and waves goodbye.

She winks at him and twirls around in her chair to boot up her computer. 

And with that, open communication has been established. No one will think twice when they see them lock eyes in silent understanding across a room, pass notes in the halls, whisper quietly in dark corners. People are entirely too easy to fool.

So when Eduardo turns around and finds Mark standing ten feet away, arms crossed and eyes dangerously narrowed, he wonders if they weren’t convincing enough and Mark figured out something was wrong. Eduardo approaches Mark with a small smile (and pretends he doesn’t remember what happened the last time he saw the genius).

Mark is scowling, first at Eduardo, and then more pointedly in Sabrina’s direction. There’s a charged, angry, almost tangible black swirling aura around Mark and Eduardo has a moment of fear that he figured out they are _lying_ to him (for his own good, but Mark never did take well to lying, whatever the intentions). He looks almost murderous.

“Mark,” he says, trying to direct Mark’s attention onto him and away from Sabrina (who he could see had detected Mark’s death glares and her hand was twitching in restraint, trying not to reach for her weapon. Sabrina really, _really_ hates death glares, the hypocrite).

Mark finally settles his eyes onto Eduardo and it’s not any less intense than that night and the thumb and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He glowers for a few moments long before he say, “I’m hungry.”

Eduardo blinks, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion.

“I haven’t eaten since Saturday,” Mark elaborates, arms still crossed tightly over his chest and his mouth forming into an almost pout.

“You, what? Fuck, Mark!” He grabs Mark’s arm and starts to drag him to the cafeteria. “You can’t _do_ that. Do you want to collapse?” Eduardo swears in Portuguese as the head down the stairs to the cafeteria. Mark is surprisingly pliant under his fingers (actually, the fact that Mark pointed out – voluntarily – he hadn’t eaten in days was suspicious. Eduardo files it away to think about later).

Eduardo sits Mark down at a large table in the corner of the nearly empty room and goes to order food. He brings back with him three sandwiches (one for him, two for Mark because Mark hasn’t eaten in days), a large plate of fries, two fruit cups, and two cokes. He pushes the food close to Mark.

“Eat,” he gestures, grabbing a fry and popping it in his mouth.

Mark glowers at the Eduardo, ignoring the food. His arms are crossed again. “We have a strict no-dating subordinates policy here at Facebook.”

Eduardo chokes on his fry and gulps down half of his coke to settle himself. Mark just continues to glare, eyes so narrowed they lost all semblance of blue and are now black slits of anger (no, something a bit more petty than anger).

“I would appreciate it if you would uphold the standards of professionalism when you’re here and follow our policies. Or I’ll have to inform Chris.” Mark lifts a brow like that’s a really horrible threat (and to Mark it is because it means nagging and distraction from coding and not getting everything he wants, but to Eduardo it means talking to someone _not insane_ ).

Eduardo settles back in his chair and opens his mouth a little when he realizes what’s going on. Mark is, somehow, for some reason, jealous. He smiles and doesn’t even try to contain the little thrill of delight that bubbles up from his stomach into his chest (because Mark is thinking about _him_ , and Mark doesn’t want _his_ attention drifting elsewhere, and maybe now Mark knows what it felt like when Sean fucking Parker was always hanging around and maybe Eduardo is going to torture Mark. Just a little. He needs to put his psychological training to use sometime).

Eduardo shrugs. “I’m not an employee of Facebook, if you’ll recall.”

Mark’s scowl deepens. “You’re a shareholder. It’s close enough.”

Eduardo smirks and throws his arm over the back of his chair. “Nice try. Now eat your food.” Mark remains stubborn and silent. Eduardo leans closer. “Do I need to feed you myself?” Mark quirks his lips and shrugs his head to the side in challenge. “Eat the damn food, Mark.”

“Abide by our policies, Wardo.”

“It’s not a crime to flirt.”

“It’s sexual harassment,” Mark sneers, like he even _cares_ about public relations and lawsuits and like Sean Parker had always behaved with professionalism.

“You used to idealize that kind of behavior,” Eduardo spits out before he can stop himself and okay, maybe this conversation is turning a bit ugly, but _Mark started it_ (Mark always started it).

Mark shifts his eyes uncomfortably. “Sean is no longer a valued member of this company.”

Eduardo scoffs. “He’s still a shareholder. Just like me.”

“I said he wasn’t a valued member.”

“And I am?”

“Yes.” Mark says it with an overtone of _duh_ and Eduardo slumps against his chair in defeat. “What don’t you understand about that?”

“I don’t understand anything about the way you think.” Eduardo flails his hands in frustration. He pauses and stares at Mark, trying to convey his annoyance and vexation, and yes, his chagrin (he has a lot of chagrin, buckets full. He’s never before felt so much chagrin and okay, that’s a really funny word, he needs to stop thinking it before he starts to smile because that would totally undermine his glare). “Just…eat your food.”

Mark picks up his sandwich but doesn’t break eye contact with Eduardo. “I’ll have Chris brief you on our policies. There’s no dating. Clothes must be worn at all times.”

Eduardo throws a fry at Mark.

&&&

It becomes the norm for Eduardo to pop in at Mark’s office everyday. Once in the morning to bring him breakfast and make sure he’s wearing fresh clothes, and then at lunch. They talk and eat together like old times. Chris soon joins in on their mini-hang-outs and eventually Dustin too when Mark decides his exile is over (“I still don’t even know what I _did_!” Dustin whines. Eduardo coughs and unconsciously rubs his lips with the back of his hand).

It also becomes Eduardo’s very enjoyable habit of waving to Sabrina when he reaches the programming level. Especially in view of Mark. Who can see them through his glass pane office (why most of the offices in Facebook have so many glass panes and so few _walls_ , Eduardo will never be able to figure out). Sometimes he even stops by to chat with her. And maybe he leans really close and laughs with her.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Wardo?” Sabrina hisses with false cheer through her teeth locked in a grin.

Eduardo’s eyes twinkle. “I’m enjoying the fringe benefits of my job.” He bops Sabrina’s nose and listens with delight when he hears Dustin curse and try to restrain Mark.

“You’re making my life a living hell.” Sabrina glances beside her and then tilts close to Eduardo’s ear. “Zuckerberg stands at my desk and tries to stare me down, you know. I can’t get any real work done. He has a _trace_ on my computer activity.”

Eduardo smiles and tilts his head back-and-forth. “Not my problem.”

“It’s going to be. Because I’m going to kill the CEO of Facebook, and you’re going to have to explain how you let that happen, Mr. Team Leader.”

“Now, now. Violence is never the answer.” He pats her knee before lifting off her desk and waving goodbye. “See you around, Robin.”

“Always a pleasure, Wardo~”

He stops by Mark’s office one day and pauses at the door to listen to the heated conversation already underway.

“You can’t fire her for no reason.”

“I have very good reasons. She’s not a good fit for Facebook. I don’t like her. They wear the same _necklace_ , Dustin.”

“I don’t care if they have the same fucking hairstyle, she’s a fucking fantastic programmer.”

Eduardo peers across to Sabrina and finds that she is, in fact, wearing their team (family) necklace. He curses their slip, reluctantly unhooking the jewelry and dropping it into his pocket. He catches Sabrina’s eyes and gestures to his neck.

She glances down at her neck and seems to realize what he’s getting at. She looks genuinely sad for a moment before she disengages the hook and shoves the necklace into her bag.

It was a bad slip. They should have known better (they do know better). But somehow it hurts to draw that line, to divide who they are from who they play. It’s selfish and stupid, but they want people to _acknowledge_ that they’re a family, to legitimize the one bond they were able to maintain over the years. They’ve all been betrayed and used but now they _have each other_ , they’re not alone.

Eduardo prays their cover isn’t blown, that Mark will notice the absence of the necklaces and let it go. Because he wants to stay here, he wants to follow this through. It’s more than just saving the world (trivial matters), or saving Facebook (a little more than trivial). Eduardo doesn’t want to lose this, doesn’t want to lose afternoons discussing who would win in a fight between Chewie and The Hulk, and if Mark could become Batman. He doesn’t want to lose easy laughter and high-fives from Dustin in the halls. He doesn’t want to lose the ability to pretend this is how they ended up, that he was never pushed out of Facebook, that Mark was always his best friend, that this was what they were supposed to be.

He’ll have to leave one day, and move on to Italy or Brazil or Nigeria. But he can hang on here, for a little while longer. When he says goodbye to Mark for the last time, he’ll be ready. Just not yet.

Not now. Please.

&&&

They’re all eating lunch together again. Mark is coding and ignoring them for the most part, but Eduardo is content because Mark will pause and take a bite to eat every time he nudges him with his foot (and Dustin has long ago stopped being amused by this. Especially when he figured out only _Eduardo’s_ foot would cause the pause-eat-resume occurrence. “How the hell can he tell?” Chris asks when they experiment, everyone crowding behind Mark’s desk chair, Eduardo and Dustin alternating their kicks from different positions). Dustin and Chris are engaging him in a lively debate about whether _Eye of the Tiger_ is more motivating than _The Imperial March_.

“No, no, you’re not getting it,” Dustin whines, flailing his chopsticks at them and ignoring his plate of sushi. “ _The Imperial March_ is like a freaking bazooka of motivation. Darth Vader is coming. DARTH VADER. What else do you need?”

“Um, maybe something that will actually motivate me and not make me terrified for my life?” Eduardo answers. “ _Eye of the Tiger_ makes you feel like you can do it, you know? You’re starring in your own fucking boxing movie.”

“DARTH VADER, Wardo.” Dustin looks disgusted.

“You’re an idiot, Dustin,” Chris chimes in, siding with Eduardo. “What does _Star Wars_ have to do with real life?”

“More than you’ll ever know,” Eduardo replies cryptically, before turning back to Dustin. “Still doesn’t make you right.”

“I don’t even know you.”

Mark chuckles silently but the others don’t seem to notice. He’s wearing his headphones but Eduardo has noticed that he turns the music off during their extended lunches (a fact he keeps to himself, like it’s precious knowledge shared only between the two of them. It’s nostalgic and oddly thrilling). Eduardo grins and nudges his knee. “Eat.”

Mark doesn’t look away from his screen but hums his consent, pausing-eating-resuming.

Eduardo’s phone vibrates in his pocket and he reaches down to retrieve it, a smile still playing on his lips. It doesn’t last long, though, because the text is from Sabrina.

_suspicious activity in PR. going 2 check, sit tight_

Eduardo frowns and shifts anxiously in his seat. He doesn’t like it when Sabrina goes off on her own, but he knows he has to maintain appearances. It would look really bad if he left right now, what with the CEO of Facebook looking at him intensely right now, whoa, when did Mark look up from his computer?

“Everything alright?” Mark asks quietly, and slightly awkwardly, like the words are foreign on his tongue.

Eduardo throws on a fake smile and waves his hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.” He places his phone beside him on the arm of his chair. “Did you finish your grapes?”

Mark makes a face and resumes his coding. “Sorry, didn’t catch that, I’m wired in.”

“Sure you are.”

Eduardo fidgets for a couple more minutes, joining half-heartedly in Chris and Dustin’s next squabble (and really, he doesn’t know who the best My Little Pony is, so he chooses the one with rainbow hair because, shit man, she has _rainbow hair_ ). His phone vibrates again and he snatches it up before the first notification ends.

_u need 2 c this_

He’s out of his chair in half a second, heading out the door.

“Wardo?” Mark looks anxious, his fingers hovering awkwardly over his keyboard. Dustin and Chris are silent and look confused.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll be right back.” He waves his hand. “Continue.”

“What’s wrong?”

Eduardo makes a face. “Bathroom, okay?”

Mark doesn’t look convinced but Dustin scrunches up his face. “Ew, dude, I’m eating.”

Eduardo leaves before there are more questions, jogging down to the public relations department. He finds Sabrina typing furiously at a computer, cursing loudly, eyes flitting rapidly across the screen. People are squawking at her but she ignores them valiantly. He shares a look with them like “what the hell, crazy woman!” before he approaches her.

He places a soft hand on her back to alert her to his presence. “What’s up?” he whispers.

“They’re live. Right now. They gained access from the inside but I’m battling someone from the outside. Fuck.” She hits a combination of keys in a blur, a pattern repeated two or three times. “Dave’s on but they’re blocking him at every turn.” She glances up at him quickly, fingers still typing frantically. “They know we’re here. They’ve detected _us_.”

“Shit.”

“I’m afraid they – ” She stops short, attention drawn back to the screen. “Shit, shit, shit, we’re losing them!”

Eduardo rubs her back encouragingly.

The computer screen goes blank. Sabrina swears and picks up the keyboard to smash before Eduardo catches her. “Hey, hey, hey, we don’t need you fired.”

She bounds from the chair and paces away. “Shit.”

Eduardo takes her arm and directs her outside to a terrace (quite lovely, with trees and flowers and benches. No one would ever say Facebook was shabby). “Hey, calm down.”

“I can’t fucking calm down, Wardo.” She runs a hand through her hair, her eyes manic.

Eduardo’s heart is starting to pound a little faster. He’s only ever seen Sabrina like this three times before, and each time her life had been in serious, immediate danger. “What’s wrong? Tell me, I need to know.”

She stills and looks him in the eye, her eyes wide with terror. “They knew who I was, Wardo. They _knew_.”

His heart literally stops beating before it goes into overdrive. “What, what do you mean they – ”

“Every hacker, every programmer, has their own style. Their own coding preference. There are many similarities, but not with me. I made mine up myself. It’s complicated and plethoric and I’ve been told many times I need to change it. No one in their right mind would do it my way. But I like it and it works, and as such, no one blocks for it. It has the element of surprise.”

She’s started to hyperventilate so Eduardo makes her sit on the bench and he runs for a water bottle. He returns quickly and finds Sabrina with her head on her knees, rocking back and forth. He clears his throat to alert her and she lifts her head. She takes the proffered bottle and drinks half of it in one go.

“Wardo.” Her voice is smaller than usual but it sounds calmer now. “Wardo, they coded in such a way that – they only blocked for two styles, Wardo. Mine. And Dave’s.” Her eyes are almost watering (almost). “They _know_.”

Eduardo’s mind takes off and he’s formulating strategies and what-ifs at lightning speed. His phone is by his ear before he even has a chance to think of it. “Yolanda, are you at base? Yeah, no, I need you to check the grounds, check the area, check fucking everywhere. I need an all-clear and I need it now. If you cannot guarantee it, we’re moving out _immediately_.” He pauses for a split second. “Stay safe.”

He hangs up and dials the director’s emergency number. He explains the situation in code and as quickly as he can. “I need to evacuate my team, sir.”

“I cannot authorize that without solid proof.”

“They fucking planned for us, in specific Sabrina and Dave. It’s a set-up.”

“You do not have permission to evacuate. Keep an eye on the situation and report as usual.”

“Sir – ”

“These are top orders, Saverin.”

Eduardo curses and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He turns back to Sabrina and she looks a lot calmer. She looks calmer, but he knows her mask is in place and that scares him more.

She keeps her head diverted from him but she stands and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I’m going back to work.”

She starts to walk past him but he grabs her arm and guides it under his. “We’re taking the rest of the day off. Let’s go get your things.”

She stares at him blankly. “Our cover will be – ”

“We’ll say you felt light-headed and I was being a perfect gentleman and offered to drive you home. No big deal.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“I’m not. Take me home?” Eduardo has gotten her to the stairs and she stares at him for a few seconds more.

She finally nods. “Okay. Fine.”

They enter the programming department and Mark is standing in his office, hovering near his office door. When he sees them, he bolts out and towards them, Chris and Dustin trailing after him. Eduardo grimaces but pushes Sabrina to her desk and walks toward Mark and the gang.

Mark is glowering again and his eyes are narrow, judgmental slits, penetrating with a force only he can muster. Eduardo is tired and worried sick and he’s not quite sure he can deal with Mark being _Mark_ right now.

“What were you doing? With her?” Mark nods pointedly to Sabrina.

“Nothing. I met her on my way back. She’s not feeling well, I think she might have the flu. I’m going to drive her home, okay?”

“No, that is not okay. You can’t just do that with female subordinates, Wardo. Right, Chris? I will not have you bring another lawsuit down on my company.”

There are so many things wrong with that sentence (another lawsuit, my company, Mark _ordering_ his life like he always has), but Eduardo cannot deal with it right now so he only lets out a mirthless laugh – hollow and grim – and shakes his head. “Not now, Mark.” He paces to Mark’s office to grab his suit jacket, throwing it on quickly.

“Mark’s right. Relationships between employees and shareholders are a PR nightmare, Wardo,” Chris tries to reason, his voice deliberately soft and unimposing (he’s good at his job).

“There’s no relationship and I’m driving her home.”

“Like hell you are,” Mark spits out, stalking past him and towards Sabrina, who’s holding her purse by her side limply and staring blankly ahead.

“Mark!” Eduardo knows that face. He knows that Mark is teeming with scathing insults and is ready to rip right into Sabrina. And Sabrina would be more than willing to give as good as she got, except not now. Not when she’s been discovered by the mole, targeted, _taunted_. Not when they don’t know how Dave is coping, if he’s safe. Not when they don’t know if Yolanda has been discovered yet, or if a sniper has entered the base and she’s lying there cold on the floor. There’s so much he doesn’t know, so many people he needs to protect right now, he can’t let the minutes tick away like this because Mark is feeling petty and jealous and wants to yell.

He runs after Mark, catching up quickly, and grabs his arm tightly. He spins him around to look directly in his face, breathing hard and unevenly. “Not now, Mark.” He squeezes Mark’s arm tighter, and he knows his eyes must appear wide and desperate but he doesn’t care about his mask right now. He cares about protecting his family and keeping Mark _out_ of this mess (because if Mark became the next target he’s not sure he would be able to handle more of the scorching panic that’s burning a hole through his stomach). “Please,” he adds.

Mark is frozen in shock for a moment, before he nods numbly, expression closed-off and void.

Eduardo releases him quickly and bounds down the stairs, Sabrina hot on his heels.

&&&

Yolanda is biting her nails and pacing the entry way when they arrive. She immediately enfolds Sabrina into a tight hug. Sabrina struggles but Yolanda is having none of it.

“Dave told me everything.” She pats Sabrina’s hair and leads her into the living room.

The task force is there, making the room seem small and confined. Dave is sipping a cup of tea, looking uncomfortable but alright. Eduardo immediately goes to him and crouches in front of him.

“Are you alright?”

Dave locks eyes with Eduardo and smiles reassuringly. “I wasn’t. For a bit there, I wasn’t. But I’m okay now. H-how’s Sabrina?”

Eduardo sighs in relief and ruffles Dave’s hair. “She’ll be alright.”

Dave smiles and nods. “Okay. Good.”

They start the briefing. It seems as though the mole has figured out Sabrina but they are unsure about Dave. Dave’s default style is more common and straight-forward (he’s a purist, and runs his lines with efficiency and finesse. It’s incredibly useful when they’re pressed for time but easily blocked if the programmer takes the extra time to reinforce their code). For now they decide that Dave should continue his work but modify his style, and Sabrina will shift her focus off of the computer analysis and more onto field work. She protests violently at first (because now she’s calmed down and is angry as fuck, she really might kill someone) until Eduardo reminds her that she’s a _secondary agent_ and her objective is surveillance, not hacking.

Eduardo concludes the meeting and draws Hugo aside quieting in the kitchen.

“What’s up, little buddy?”

Eduardo reaches in the fridge for a beer and ignores the “little buddy” remark. “I want to thank you for all your support and cooperation.”

Hugo punches him in the shoulder and Eduardo almost reels back into the stove before catching himself. “It’s a pleasure working with you guys.”

“I just wanted to let you know…” Eduardo sighs and gulps his beer. “For now we’re sticking where we are. But if there’s another slip, if I feel for one second that we’ve been compromised, I’m going to defy orders.” He looks Hugo straight in the eye. “It might get messy and I want to warn you. You might be ordered to subdue us. And if that happens, Hugo. We’re not going to show any mercy.”

Hugo blinks at him for a moment before he throws his head back and laughs. “I like you, Eddie. You’re okay.”

Eduardo cringes at the nickname but manages a smile. “Yeah. You too.”

The next morning Eduardo does not even have time to pop into Mark’s office with breakfast before he comes across Chris, looking anxious and harassed waiting for him.

“Good morning, Chris,” Eduardo starts, unlocking his office and allowing Chris inside.

Chris nods and follows him in, taking a tentative sit at his desk. “I, uh.” He sighs and looks up at Eduardo, swallowing before putting on a professional face. “Look, I know you’re only here for a short amount of time, and you’re not directly working for Facebook, but there are some behaviors that are still really inappropriate.”

Eduardo rubs his face and falls into his chair. “Yesterday was the exception, okay? I just drove her home, that’s all.”

“To your home.”

Eduardo freezes and drops his hand from his face. “What did you – ”

Chris sighs and throws an envelope onto the desk. “It’s all in there. Wardo, really, I expect more from you. Do you know how bad this would make Facebook look if it got out?”

Eduardo’s hands are shaking when he reaches for the envelope. He opens it quickly and dumps the contents out on his desk. A series of pictures of him with Sabrina, in his car, at the office, at his _home_. He feels cold invade his veins, flow through his arms and legs, numbing his body, except for his mind. His mind is racing and won’t slow down long enough for him to identify one thought clearly. He can’t hear what Chris is saying (something about policies and discretion and signing an agreement or something).

“Where.” His voice is dry and cracks and his lips can’t form words properly. He swallows and tries again. “Where did you get this?”

Chris shifts and diverts his eyes. “It’s really not a big deal but we need to be careful – ”

“Who hired the PI?” Eduardo tightens his hold on the pictures, crumpling them in his hands. “Was it Mark? Of fucking course it was Mark.” He bolts out of his chair, racing up the stairs and heading straight to Mark’s office. “Mark!” he calls out and it’s so familiar, that sick feeling in his stomach, that whirring chant in his head _no no no Mark no why why no please no_. “Mark!” he calls even more loudly because that’s what he did last time and it feels appropriate, even necessary.

He pushes through Mark’s office door. Mark peers up and disengages his headphones this time (and maybe he’s learnt over the years that you have to face confrontations, you can’t ignore it and code and pretend it’s not happening). His face is blank and unapologetic and just a little challenging (and it really, really feels like all those years ago).

Eduardo flings the photos at Mark’s face and he doesn’t care if it’s a tad overdramatic, he is livid and just a little terrified. If the wrong people saw those photos, if anyone _mentioned_ those photos to the wrong people, they would irreversibly damage him and his team (at best it meant separation from the team who had become his only home. At worst, they could all die). For all he knew, these photos were the reason why the mole had detected Sabrina. His hands shake by his sides but his voice is deadly calm. “What the fuck is this, Mark?”

Mark blinks at him slowly before glancing down at the photos (like he didn’t know what they were). He arranges them idly on the desk for a moment before locking his eyes with Eduardo, blue voids so cold they glimmer. “I think maybe you should be the one to answer that question.”

“You had me followed, Mark.”

“For good reason, apparently.”

Eduardo wants to yell, to scream, to _hurt_ Mark just like how he’s hurting right now. Mark doesn’t get it, doesn’t realize that he’s taking Eduardo’s life away from him again, wrenching away every good and beautiful thing he’s ever created on his own. Like it wasn’t even his to begin with.

Instead Eduardo looks straight at Mark, ascertains that he has his full attention (focused and intoxicating and so electrifying he feels it through his blood). He lays his hands flat on Mark’s desk and leans close. He says very clearly, very slowly, pleading with his eyes, “Mark. I need you to trust me. It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s nothing. Let it go, Mark. _Trust_ me for once in your life. I think I’ve earned that. Just once. Please.”

Mark seems frozen, but there’s a change in his eyes, a softening of his expression. He blinks several times, glances away for a few moments before going back to Eduardo. He clears his throat quickly and nods very slightly. “Yeah, okay.”

Eduardo huffs out a disbelieving breath. “Okay? Mark, really?”

Mark shifts away from his gaze and starts to type on his keyboard again. “Yeah. I’ll call it off.” He peers awkwardly at Eduardo before returning to his screen quickly.

Eduardo smiles, relief and something entirely too close to _happy_ bubbling up from his stomach and into his chest. He rounds Mark’s desk and turns his chair around to face him. Mark is startled and his hands are hovering mid-air like there’s an invisible keyboard in front of him. Eduardo thinks he looks adorable and he laughs and grabs Mark’s face between his hands. “Thank you,” he utters and before he can even think about what he’s doing, he leans down and plants his lips on Mark’s. It’s quick and brief and he hardly has the chance to process the feeling (cold and softer than he imagined, but so solid and safe and _welcoming_ ) before he pulls away, shocked at his own actions.

He places a hand over his lips, his eyes wide and apologetic. “I – Sorry, I – ”

Mark is just staring at him, his mouth having fallen open and he’s _gaping_ at Eduardo (like Eduardo is from another planet and what has he done, he’s ruined a perfectly good almost-friendship with a stupid thank you gone wrong and he needs to leave. Right now).

He spins on his heel, hand still placed firmly over his lips. He stops when he feels Mark’s hand grab tightly onto his wrist but neither moves to look at the other. Before either has the chance to muster up enough courage, Chris enters the room and glares at them in exasperation.

“The entire fucking programming department and half of accounting are watching this little drama you’re putting on,” he bemoans. “Dustin is twitting about it like a madman.”

Mark’s fingers slip from Eduardo’s wrist and he turns back to his computer silently. Eduardo clears his throat and murmurs a quiet apology, escaping the office quickly.

He pointedly ignores Sabrina’s Look. He turns his phone off when Yolanda starts to text him. He can take down entire nations but he doesn’t think he has the mental maturity to deal with what just happened.

No, Eduardo is an awkward twelve-year-old and he’s going to stay that way, thank you very much.

&&&

It’s cliché and predictable, but Mark and Eduardo avoid each other. It’s also quite hilarious according to Dustin and Yolanda and Eduardo prays fervently that they never, ever meet (like, _ever_. It will lead to the end of civilization, he just knows it). Thankfully he doesn’t have much time to dwell on…what happened (his lips on Mark’s, wondering what Mark’s skin under his hands would feel like, what if Mark had opened his mouth…). They’re closing in on the mole and have narrowed down the suspect pool considerably. Sabrina and Eduardo spend their time at the offices watching the people high on their suspicious list. Yolanda trails people after hours and spends her days building new hiding places for weapons at the Facebook offices (and no one seems to notice her lurking about because she genuinely looks lost all the time). Dave is making slow progress on his traces but he’s ruled out several dummy IP addresses.

Life is going well and he finds it within himself to gather his courage and see Mark. He buys a copious amount of food for lunch and heads up to Mark’s office. Except when he gets there, the office is empty. He can’t even find Dustin or Chris on the floor. It’s disconcerting and he sets the food on Mark’s desk, leaning against a chair and frowning.

Something is wrong, something is so terribly wrong that he isn’t surprised when his phone rings. It’s his regular ringtone, not the one for texts, and he feels a deep sense of dread settle in his stomach when he sees Dave’s name on the display. He searches for Sabrina quickly outside of Mark’s office, but she’s there, typing and working as usual.

He answers the phone. “What is it?”

“I hope you’re at your computer right now,” Dave sounds anxious and heartbreakingly hopeful, like an answer in the negative would shatter him.

“Why, what’s wrong?” Eduardo is already out of the office and heading down to his own. He shakes his head as Sabrina stands to follow him.

“Please tell me you’re at your computer.”

“I’m not. Dave, what the fuck is going on?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Dave curses and Eduardo stops abruptly on the stairs because Dave never swears. “They’re in your system. The mole is in your computer and leaking and shit, Wardo. Someone’s shutting it down from the inside – ”

Eduardo takes the rest of the stairs three at a time, hoping against hope that what he suspects isn’t true. But when he reaches the accounting department, he can see Dustin and Chris and _Mark_ there. Mark is frantically typing at Eduardo’s computer, Dustin and Chris over his shoulders, Dustin pointing every so often and yelling something.

Eduardo closes his eyes for a split second, blocking out what is happening, blocking out what will happen, blocking out what he has to leave far before he was ever ready to. He gathers himself and opens his eyes, now distant and steely strong and liquid copper. He enters his office. “What’s going on?”

Chris and Dustin look up at him, faces shocked and (he doesn’t know how he does it, but he keeps his eyes strong and unwavering) betrayed.

“How.” Dustin opens and closes his mouth, his cheeks are heated and his eyes are watery. “How could you? It was you? It was _you_ all along?”

“What are you – ”

“The leaks, Wardo! The fucking leaks! You’re trying to destroy Facebook.” Dustin’s voice cracks and he chokes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “All the weird behavior, why you showed up here so suddenly! You just wanted fucking revenge!”

Eduardo swallows slowly, his worst fears confirmed. The mole set him up, made it look like _he_ was the source. And there was no way he could explain away his behavior. It was brilliant, he could admit that.

Dustin charges toward him and grabs his collar. “What the FUCK, SAVERIN? Do we mean that little to you?” He shakes Eduardo harshly. “SAVERIN!”

Eduardo holds Dustin’s gaze (he knows he will regret this, that he’ll see those eyes wide and watery with betrayal when he closes his own, when he tries to sleep, etched into his mind to spring up whenever he thinks he’s forgotten). He says quietly and softly to Dustin, “I didn’t do it.” But there’s nothing he can do, no one he can appeal to. He has to accept their rebukes, has to sacrifice (always sacrifices, always selflessness, always giving when no one can appreciate just what he gave up on).

Chris is beside him, disengaging Dustin’s fingers from Eduardo’s now wrinkled suit. “I think you should leave now, Eduardo.” Chris’s voice is tight and controlled and so very distant, so unlike the Chris Eduardo’s known for years.

Eduardo backs away and nods slowly. He glances one last time at Mark, still typing furiously at the keyboard, like this is another assignment he has to complete before the deadline, like this is a drunken bet as to how fast he can hack the Harvard servers, like this isn’t his life on the line, like Eduardo isn’t walking out of his life for good, forever (or maybe that’s what gives him that sense of calm, that controlled frost).

“Mark,” he calls out quietly, almost unconsciously. Mark freezes for one split second (unnoticeable to everyone but Eduardo because only Eduardo _knows_ Mark like he does), his eyes shift to Eduardo’s direction but do not lift to actually see him (Eduardo feels a deep hollow of regret but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Mark is sparing him hours of penitence, maybe it’s best that he will never be able to conjure up what Mark looks like when he’s been utterly and completely destroyed, abandoned).

And then Mark is focused on the screen in front of him again and Eduardo is being escorted out of the building (but this time Chris takes him and they spare him the humiliation of security guards. One last kindness to end their friendship with). Sabrina has come down to find out what is happening. She goes to approach them but he shakes his head at her. They need her there. She’s the only link left to save Facebook (to save Chris and Dustin and Mark and all they used to be but will never experience again).

And then he’s in his car, speeding down the highway, away from Facebook, away from what his life could have been (should have been). He muttering under his breath and he doesn’t even comprehend what it is, like his mind is broken and the various parts of his body are working in isolation of each other. His hand is firm and solid on the gear shift and his foot is like lead on the accelerator. He wants to go, go fast and blinding and maybe if he goes fast enough he can reverse the rotation of the earth and undo all of this.

He’s racing down the freeway, weaving between cars that won’t _move_ , what the fuck is their problem? He knows there is pavement and sky and civilization in front of him but all he can see is Dustin’s eyes (betrayed and hurting and _broken_ ) and Chris’s stiff expression (closed and distant and dismissive) and _Mark_ (bent over the computer, frantic, focused, frozen and shifting and he will never look at Eduardo again).

“Fuck.” Eduardo pulls over to the side of the road, swerving to a sudden stop, dust flying around the Audi. He’s reaching for his phone (which has been ringing non-stop since he left the offices). He dials the director’s number and exits his car (because it’s suddenly stifling and small and he can’t breathe anymore).

And apparently not only does the director know about the set-up, the director had known about it for hours before it even took place.

Eduardo’s voice is incredulous when he says, “You knew? You fucking _knew_ and you let it happen?”

“There’s more at stake here than you realize. We took a calculated risk.”

“And did it pay off? It didn’t, did it? Do you know why? BECAUSE IT WAS A FUCKING SET-UP TO GET ME OUT OF THERE.”

“It was an official decision. You are an agent of the CIA, you should remember that. If you need to debrief, we have psychologists available for your – ”

“Fuck off, Harold.”

“Excuse me?”

He runs a hand over his face and kicks his tire in frustration. “You don’t even know what you did. I’m not there anymore, _sir_. Facebook is exposed. Sabrina is alone in the field and you don’t even fucking care, do you?”

“We’re working on sending in a supporting operative for her but in the meantime – ”

“In the meantime she could die. No. I’m not following your orders anymore.”

“That’s high treason, Saverin.”

“Yeah, well, it won’t be the first time.” And he throws his phone into incoming traffic (because that’s so much more satisfying than touching a small button on the touchscreen and he has a habit of breaking electronics when he’s enraged. Several cars pummel it to itty bitty pieces and it’s just a little magnificent). He slumps against his car, hip resting on the hood, finding his breath again.

He tries not to think that, just a few weeks ago, he would have welcomed this development with open arms.

&&&

The first thing Eduardo does when he gets back to base is inform his team that he is, in fact, committing treason and while he would love their support, he doesn’t want them involved.

“Screw you,” Yolanda spits out at the same time that she wraps Eduardo into a suffocating hug. “I will never ever leave you, my squishy. You will always be my squishy.”

Eduardo smiles and pats her back, glancing over to Dave who is sitting on the couch. “You let Yolanda watch _Finding Nemo_ again?”

She shakes her head against his chest and blindly reaches her hand up to awkwardly cover his mouth. “Shh shh sh, Squishy must not talk.”

Dave glares at him (though it’s an unfamiliar expression on his baby face so it looks closer to constipation. But Eduardo has too much tact to mention that). His arms are crossed. “No. We’re a team, right? We’re a family. Screw the Agency, this is where my loyalty lies.”

Sabrina is still at the office but she’s glued to her phone, hissing quietly into the room through the speakerphone function on their landline, “I will kill you if you cut me out right now, you fucking bastard.”

Eduardo’s throat catches with something he does not know how to articulate (something about trust and family and finally being there, finding it, giving and receiving unconditional love). Instead he says, “Watch your language at work, Rina.”

“You’ve gone rogue, you’re not team leader anymore.”

“I will always be team leader. And going rogue gives me cool points which means I still get to boss you around.”

“He’s right, you know,” Yolanda muffles into Eduardo, arms still tight around his torso.

“Yolanda, stop hugging him. He doesn’t deserve it and your breasts are probably suffocating him,” Sabrina orders because she lost and she’s grumpy.

“Well if he has to die somehow, I think that’s the way he’d want to go.” She smiles up at Eduardo. “Right?”

Eduardo bops her nose and grins all the way into his eyes. “Right.”

They quickly set to work. Dave traces the feed and tries to find any other secrets the Agency has been keeping from them. Yolanda does a sweep for surveillance throughout the base and the Audi, gleefully bidding goodbye to Big Brother before stomping them under her booted feet (she also runs into the house declaring at the top of her lungs that she found the laser in the Audi. “No no! Don’t tell me!” Dave moans, covering his ears and yelling “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” He wants to find it himself).

Sabrina stays at the office, monitoring the situation. The leak stopped fairly quickly (because it was never meant to be a source of data. It was meant to kick Eduardo out of the offices), but Mark and Dustin are still camping out in Eduardo’s old office, fiddling with the computer and cursing loudly. Chris apparently pops in every once in a while, a frown permanently creasing his brows (“Do you have to be so descriptive, Rina?” Eduardo asks in a tight voice). Once most of the office goes home, she will sneak Eduardo back into the office. They need to retrieve the cameras he hid in his office and place some extra tracers in the computers before they go off the grid.

They received a text from Hugo informing them that they have about twelve hours before he had to exterminate their operation. He made it very clear that for the next twelve hours, Hugo and his team would be way, waaaaaaaay over on the other side of town. Practically in the next city over. And totally not moving from that spot for twelve full hours.

It’s two in the morning when Eduardo waits by the back door of the Facebook offices for Sabrina. He’s dressed in a dark navy suit (because despite popular belief, pure black is actually very noticeable. Navy, on the other hand, blends perfectly into the night background) and feels for his gun tucked into the small of his back. Sabrina opens the door very slowly, muting any creaks it makes and ushering him in quickly.

“I was only able to disable the bottom two floors’ security cameras. Your good friend Moskovitz interrupted my work. He was going through the footage for earlier today last think I checked.”

Eduardo frowns at her. “Why is he going through the footage?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Sabrina checks around a corner before waving Eduardo forward with her. “Maybe they’re making you a goodbye montage.”

Eduardo sighs. “Can we not joke about that?”

Sabrina pauses and catches his eye. She clears her throat. “Sorry,” she says awkwardly, because she doesn’t apologize and she’s not entirely sure how to go about it.

Eduardo nods and they continue on.

“Zuckerberg is still on your computer. I would say he’s searching for previous leaks but he should be done that by now.” She pauses again. “I think he might—”

“Yeah, no, we’re not going to speculate on him right now. Please.”

Sabrina nods and they creep up the stairs to the top floor. “I don’t know how we’ll get into your office but I think a wait-and-see approach will suffice. The only wildcard is Hughes, who I haven’t seen for a couple hours. Logic dictates he went home.”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows. “You disagree?”

“Logic is a bitch sometimes. Logic dictates that you’re the mole.”

He frowns. “I get your point.”

They sneak down a hallway, heading to a workspace where they can plant a tracer (since the workspace is shared between all the programmers, there’s less of a chance for discovery). They hear someone shuffling down the corridor around the corner and Eduardo and Sabrina freeze, planting themselves at the side of the wall. Sabrina shakes her head because no one was supposed to be in that area. Eduardo reaches behind his back to grab his gun, holding it taunt and pointed at the ground (and he prays that it’s the mole so he can kick his ass and then shoot him and then kick him again. Provided the mole is a man. If not, repeat the same process with her).

Eduardo lifts his gun and points it directly at the unknown assailant as they round the corner. “Stop right there.”

The assailant freezes and Sabrina flicks on her flashlight, shining it onto the unknown individual.

“What the, _fuck_ Wardo, why do you have a _gun_ , oh _shit_ \- ”

Eduardo’s eyes widen because it’s Chris, he’s pointing his gun at Chris (and does that mean Chris is the mole? That doesn’t make any sense, Chris would never do anything like that). Chris is saying something about workplace violence and Eduardo really doesn’t need to do this, they can work something out and Eduardo realizes he’s still holding his gun up (and that’s not good, that’s the opposite of good, that is very bad indeed). He somehow musters up enough mental cognizance to lower his gun but he’s still staring blankly at Chris and Chris is still rambling about how violence is never the answer and his voice is going alarmingly high.

So they’re both extremely grateful when Sabrina swears low under her breath and pushes them both into the nearest room, locking the door behind her. She grabs Chris by his shoulders, tells him to shut up, and forces him into a chair. She turns to Eduardo and grabs his gun away from him. “What the fuck is your problem? Why the _hell_ did you draw your gun?”

Eduardo gapes and says in a very petulant voice, “I thought it was the mole.”

“You don’t even know what the mole looks like, and it could have been anyone walking down the hall. Oh yeah, it _was_.”

“Mistakes were made,” Eduardo starts.

“You call yourself a fucking agent?”

“I, um, sorry to interrupt but can someone tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?” Chris finally speaks up from his chair. He’s staring, lost and wide-eyed, at them both. “Why does Wardo have a gun? What is Wardo even _doing_ back here? And, uh, Robin, was it? What. Just…what?”

Sabrina sneers at Eduardo and gestures to him dramatically. “Go ahead. Explain yourself.” She leans her hip onto the conference table and crosses her arms.

“Okay, obviously you’re not impressed with me at the moment but really? I don’t have a fucking explanation!” Eduardo runs his hands through his hair and clenches them there.

“How about the truth? I’d kinda like that version please,” Chris chimes.

Eduardo purses his lips, looking from Sabrina to Chris, then back to Sabrina. He groans when he figures out that no, Sabrina really is not going to help him right now (and maybe she’s enjoying this a little bit, the sadist). He takes a seat opposite Chris and explains the whole story from the beginning. How he was recruited shortly after he signed the non-disclosure papers. How he trained and they set him up in Singapore. He skips over most of his missions (another story for another time). He relates to Chris the threat against Facebook, how it’s more than just a hacker or someone with too much time on their hands. It’s serious enough to involve the CIA. Chris stares at him almost unblinkingly but seems to take in most of what Eduardo tells him.

“So…” Chris holds up hand up in a _stop_ position to make Eduardo pause in his tale. “You’re…You’re an agent for the CIA. Like, the Central Intelligence Agency. You’re a spy.”

Eduardo nods eagerly. “Yes.”

“And…” Chris points to Sabrina behind Eduardo. “And she’s your teammate.”

“Yeah, that’s Sabrina. Say ‘hi’ Sabrina.”

“No,” Sabrina responds, narrowing her lips into a thin line.

“She’s an absolute delight.”

“Shut up, Saverin.”

Eduardo smiles slightly before it fades, resting his eyes on Chris again. “I know this sounds so unreal and I don’t expect you to believe us but please give it some thought before dismissing it.”

Chris holds his gaze a few moments longer. “No, uh. I believe you.”

“You do?” Eduardo’s face lights up with hope.

Chris smiles a little. “Yeah. To tell you the truth, I was kind of wondering if you got into something like that. Not the CIA, mind you, but. Well, I went to Singapore one day. To visit you. And really, Wardo? You should work on your cover. Your office building doesn’t exist. And whoever is taking care of your apartment is doing a really bad job of it.”

They share a quiet laugh together and Eduardo did not realize how heavy he felt before because now his shoulders are light and things don’t seem quite so bad. He locks eyes with Chris. “Thank you.”

Chris smiles and nudges Eduardo’s shoulder with his hand. “You’re welcome.” He leans forward. “I still can’t believe you’re a spy, though. That’s so fucking cool.”

Eduardo smirks and leans back in his chair, checking out his nails absently. “Hm, yeah. I guess.”

Sabrina kicks the back of his chair and he has to flail his arms to maintain his balance. He glares at her over his shoulder. She shrugs. “So cool, Mr. Spy Man.”

Chris laughs and rubs his cheek with his hand. “Dustin is going to freak out.”

“You can’t tell Dustin,” Eduardo says quickly.

“How the hell do I reinstate you if I can’t tell Dustin?” Chris narrows his eyes. “Or Mark?”

Eduardo rubs a hand over his face. “They can’t know, alright? I’ve put you in enough danger as it is.”

Chris crosses his arms. “I don’t like this. Mark needs to know. He at least needs to know about how serious the threat is.”

Eduardo groans but Sabrina takes over for him. “We’re taking care of it. Zuckerberg can’t do anything we can’t, and would in fact hinder our investigation.” She hops off the table sidles up beside Chris, leaning down slightly. “We also need your help with something.”

Chris lifts an eyebrow.

“We need you to retrieve the surveillance cameras Wardo has in his old office.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Zuckerberg seems content to stay there all night and we only have a few hours before we go off the grid.”

Chris whips his head to Eduardo. “You’re going off the grid?”

Eduardo nods, leaning his head on his hand.

“Does that mean what it sounds like?”

Eduardo nods again. “Looks like this is goodbye.”

Chris swallows. “You’re sure you can’t stay here, like you have been? Maybe we can figure out an explanation about why that happened today…”

Sabrina sighs and places her hands on Chris’s shoulder. “You’re going to miss Wardo, I know, I get it. But the best way you can help him is to get us those cameras. Now.”

Chris nods. “Okay. Where are they?”

“There’s one in the pot of planted mums I keep on my desk. That’s the one I need the most,” Eduardo explains.

Chris raises his eyebrows. “You want me to walk into that office and take your mums.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“With Mark in _that_ mood?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of secret agents.”

Chris sighs and stands. “Fine. Can I at least take your gun?”

“Sure,” Eduardo agrees easily at the same time Sabrina sternly replies, “No.”

She glares at Eduardo. “ _No_.”

Eduardo purses his lips and tilts his head apologetically at Chris. “No,” he pouts, mouthing “sorry”.

Chris laughs before schooling his features and opening the door.

He doesn’t get very far because Dustin barrels through the door, eyes alight. “Chris! CHRIS WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” He enfolds Chris in a hug.

Eduardo and Sabrina immediately hide and they can see Chris looking frantically around the room for them before he turns back to Dustin, disengaging his arms. “I thought we had a talk about personal bubbles.”

“Chris you’re always such a downer but I don’t even care, everything is wonderful again.” He tightens his hold on Chris before finally letting him go. He bounces on his heels, face splitting with a grin. “Guess what, guess what, guess what??”

Chris rubs his temple. “What? Dustin, I really don’t – ”

“Wardo is innocent!”

Chris opens his mouth wide and Eduardo has to swallow a surprised sound in the back of his throat. Was Dustin listening in on them? That would be very, very bad.

“What – ”

Dustin leans close to Chris and claps his hands together in delight. “You see, _just_ when the leak started, you know, when Wardo had to have _been_ at the computer to set it up, he was no where in the building! He was getting lunch down the street. We have security footage of it!”

Chris breaks into a huge grin. “So…you’re saying Wardo is in the clear? And we don’t have to make up some ridiculous explanation like he works for the CIA or anything?”

Dustin laughs. “Like Wardo could work for the CIA. You’ve been up too long, Christopher, my dear friend.” He slings an arm around Chris’s shoulders. “But dude, it was so brilliant. Mark just wouldn’t let up. He had to work at it for hours, but he finally cut through the false starts and misdirections. He was brilliant, absolutely fucking genius.”

He starts to walk Chris out of the conference room but pauses. “Oh, right. Mark doesn’t want Wardo knowing he was the one who figured it out, though.” Dustin frowns. “Frankly he’s acting like a tool. Just between you and me?” He leans closer to Chris and whispers very loudly, “I think he’s in love with Wardo.”

Chris pushes Dustin’s face away from his ear. “Dude, personal bubbles. We talked about this.”

Dustin takes Chris’s rebuke in stride and skips happily down the hall. “I’m going to call Wardo and let him know he can come in tomorrow morning. The fab four rules again!” He fist pumps the air, laughing as he retrieves his phone.

Sabrina turns quickly to Eduardo. “Is your phone off?” she whispers hurriedly.

“Not exactly,” he answers.

“I hate it when you talk in riddles,” she warns him.

“It was on when I kind of threw it into incoming traffic,” Eduardo answers sheepishly.

She stares at him before shaking her head. “You’re such a fucking baby.”

“Wardo?” Chris whispers tentatively, breaking their conversation.

They reappear in front of Chris and he jumps slightly. “Shit, that’s cool. And a little creepy. How did you guys disappear so fast?”

Eduardo smirks. “It’s a spy thing.”

Chris smiles. “So, you heard Dustin. You can come back.” He looks hopeful and just a little too young to have gone through what he has. “Are you…can you stay and help us figure this whole thing out?”

Eduardo turns to look at Sabrina but she shrugs. “Your call.”

Eduardo grins. “Yeah. I think I’ll stick around a bit more.”

Chris almost fist pumps. _Almost_

&&&

Once they have confirmed that Mark has retreated back to his own office to presumably code for the rest of the early morning (and they talk Eduardo out of kidnapping him and making him sleep for at least eight hours. “He’s been up for far too long. You guys! Seriously, I can’t watch this!”), Eduardo, Sabrina, and Chris retrieve the surveillance footage from Eduardo’s office.

Chris bends and squints at the potted plant. “Where’s the camera? Seriously, I can’t see it anywhere.” Eduardo smirks and overturns a leaf to reveal the camera, disguised as part of a stem. Chris breathes out and runs his fingers lightly over it. “That is amazing.”

Eduardo shrugs. “Benefits to being a super spy.”

They start talking animatedly about technology and gadgets and how it’s so damn cool that Eduardo is a spy until Sabrina’s sneering reaches audible levels. She grabs the plant and tugs Eduardo by the ear. “We’re leaving. Now.”

She gets as far as the doorway, Eduardo trailing obediently behind her, before she stops and glares over her shoulder. “Are you coming?” she demands impatiently towards Chris.

Chris jumps and his eyes widen slightly. He points at his chest. “Me?”

Sabrina glowers. “Is there someone else in my fucking eyeline?” She turns to Eduardo. “Your friends are delightful. I’ve never met such brilliant specimens,” she drones sarcastically, before marching out.

Eduardo turns to Chris, a little bemused. He shrugs and quirks his lips. “I think you just got invited over to my place for a sleepover.”

Chris laughs, almost hysterically. “Will I be safe over there?” he asks, walking with Eduardo down to the parking garage, both of them keeping a few feet behind Sabrina.

Eduardo grins. “Most of us don’t bite. Only Sabrina.” He leans close to whisper, “She’s not so bad, though. She’s a lot like Mark. But more violent. Much more violent.”

“That makes me feel so much better, Wardo, thank you,” Chris deadpans.

But Eduardo just grins because Chris is coming over to his place and he’s going to meet the team, and it’s like his two worlds are colliding together into one big awesome world (they should have a party to celebrate. With beer and balloons and pizza). He can talk about that time they got lost in the middle of the desert (and they started to try to figure out where the hell they were and Yolanda just stuck her headphones in her ears and drove them to civilization, like she was going to the 7-11 down the street) or that time where some guy tried to pick Sabrina up while undercover at a night club (and Sabrina just came up to Eduardo five minutes later and told him they needed to hide a body. The guy didn’t die, but Sabrina still believes that’s a mere technicality), and even that time where Dave disappeared for three days while in Belgium (and he still won’t tell them what happened but maybe now Chris will wheedle it out of him. Yolanda’s money is on a chocolate binge).

And maybe, just maybe, he can have some semblance of a normal life again (he doesn’t care to think about when he started wanting a “normal” life. He’s spent all of his time and energy since childhood into becoming something extraordinary).

Chris is a people person despite his prolonged exposure to Mark and Dustin (they could ruin a man for polite society; but then again, Eduardo’s team is far from polite. Or society), so Eduardo isn’t too worried about his team’s reaction to one of his oldest friends. Yolanda and Dave are surprised that Eduardo has brought home a stranger, but he quickly reassures them that Chris can be trusted.

Sabrina disappears into the office with the mums while Eduardo makes introductions. “Chris, this is Dave. He’s one of the most brilliant programmers I’ve ever met, and he can sing the element song. While drunk. It’s amazing. Dave, this is Chris. Say hello.”

“H-hello,” Dave says to the ground and fidgets his hands.

Chris smiles and shakes hands with Dave (who avoids his eyes and ducks his head a lot, retreating back into his shell). Dave looks to Eduardo for guidance but Eduardo smiles softly at him.

Dave nods and manages to make eye contact with Chris. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“And this,” Eduardo says, gesturing to Yolanda, “is our jewel, Yolanda. She’s an engineer, she’s absolutely brilliant, and she owns Mario Cart. Seriously, she will ruin you. Yolanda, this is Chris Hughes. My friend.” He beams so brightly at the “friend” comment but manages to contain himself.

Chris holds out his hand but Yolanda laughs and envelopes him in a hug. “Hi-ya, Hugh! It’s nice to meet you.” She pulls away and studies him for a moment. She leans in close and whispers loudly, “But you know, Eduardo hasn’t mentioned you before.”

Chris furrows his brow. He looks over her shoulder to Eduardo who mouths, “She’s also crazy.” Eduardo circles his finger around his ear in the universally recognized gesture of CRAZY and Chris bites his lip to keep from smiling too widely.

They order a pizza and settle down at the kitchen table, drinking beer and talking and choking out the punchline to stupid stories through their laughter when Sabrina walks into the room grim faced.

“Heeeeey, Rina,” Yolanda slurs slightly because she is a lightweight. “Wan’ som’ pizza?”

Sabrina ignores her and jerks her head at Eduardo. “Care to join me for a moment?”

Eduardo narrows his eyes, wondering if she’s sulking because she has no social skills, but realizes she is serious and follows her quietly into the hall. “What’s up?” he asks quickly because he does not like the sinking feeling that’s forming in his stomach. He’s had far too much of that in the last few days (there should be a limit on how much life tortures him. He’s pretty sure he’s made up for whatever horrible sin he’s committed in another life by now. Now the universe is just getting her jollies. Which is decidedly _unfair_ ).

Sabrina hesitates, crossing her arms and clearing her throat (which is very unlike her, she’s usually straight to the point). “You should, uh. You need to see the surveillance.”

He follows her mutely into the office and takes a seat at the desk. She presses PLAY on the laptop and he watches footage of his empty office from earlier. He peers at her curiously but she gestures for him to keep watching.

He focuses back onto the laptop screen and is rewarded with a view of the mole, dressed in a maintenance uniform with the nametag Josh. Except he knows Josh the maintenance guy (he knows every single person who goes in and out of the entire building, and the surrounding buildings. He’s almost obsessive about it) and this is not Josh. Josh is short and stocky and has a large puff of red hair. This person is tall and fit and has strands of blond hair sticking out of his cap. The Josh-who-is-not-Josh does not look at any of the cameras and manages to avoid having his face captured by any of them (like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s had the same fucking training that Eduardo did). He walks over to Eduardo’s computer and starts to type (with gloved hands, of course there would be no fingerprints, that would be too easy. The universe hates him, remember?).

“He’s a professional,” Eduardo says, glancing over at Sabrina. “That’s expected, right?”

“Keep watching.”

Eduardo frowns because no, he does not want to keep watching, he wants to go back to the kitchen and drink beer and listen to Chris laugh in disbelief when Dave explains how they escaped a never-to-be-named country on a donkey with only the clothes on their backs and a satchel full of porcelain dolls (and Chris will ask what the dolls were for and they’ll tell him it’s classified and they’ll all laugh until the sun comes up). But he turns at Sabrina’s insistent tapping on his shoulder and he waits. Until he sucks his breath in.

Because the mole is holding up a sign to one of his cameras (so he obviously knew where the cameras were and it wasn’t some stupid stroke of luck). The sign is typed, clean Arial font on white paper, spelling out an unsettling challenge.

It reads: _bye bye Wardo_

He shuts the laptop closed with a speed that surprises him. He stands abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s nothing,” he declares, more to himself than to Sabrina.

Sabrina’s face is far more gentle than he’s used to and it’s not making him feel any better. “He knows who you are. He knows you’re Eduardo Saverin, shareholder _and_ secret agent.”

“Yeah, so what? They detected you too.”

“They didn’t hold up a sign at my desk with my _name_. This is serious, do you realize how much danger you’re in right now?”

“What are you getting at?”

She pauses, catching his eye and makes sure she has his full attention before she continues. “You shouldn’t go back to the office. You should remove yourself from this location and work from afar for a while – ”

“Absolutely not.” His voice is rough and a little harsher than he intended but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. “I’m not backing down. I’ve been in danger plenty of times before.”

“Never specified danger.” Sabrina is no longer calm and the gentle look on her face has been replaced with impatient anger. “Safety and survival is always our primary objective. Fuck, Wardo, you’ve repeated it to us so many times Dave mutters it in his sleep!”

Eduardo ignores her, pacing to the bay window and looking out into the brightening sky (navy fading to blue, stars still dancing though perhaps not as vibrantly as before. Like weathered souls and old friendships. He wonders idly what that makes the moon in his simile).

“I’m going to tell the team. And we’re going to remove you from – ”

“No.” Eduardo still won’t look at her, still has his hands shoved down into his pockets and his back straight as a rod. “I won’t abandon Facebook. I won’t abandon it again.”

“It or him?”

Eduardo tilts his head and makes a vague sound. “Both,” he decides to answer truthfully after a minute.

“Is it worth your life? Whatever nostalgia or guilt or regret you feel, whatever the fuck you still haven’t gotten over, is it worth your fucking _life_?” She’s livid, he can hear it in the way her voice quivers, like she can hardly control her own voice.

He reaches to touch the glass and it feels cold under his fingers, so cold it almost feels wet, an erroneous interpretation of his sensations in his mind (like the pitch of Mark’s voice over the phone and he can’t think about it because his bed is on fire but if he had just listened, he could have heard it, seen it, done _something_ about it). “Why did you join the CIA, Sabrina?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He draws invisible patterns on the pane with his finger. “My best friend betrayed me, cut me out of everything we worked together for. I sued him for six hundred million dollars and the entire time I kept thinking, ‘Please, just say you’re sorry. It’s okay, I’ll forgive you, we’ll be best friends again, please.’ And he just looked across the table like it was all my fault, like I was the biggest fucking idiot in the world. My best friend.

“No,” he corrects himself, frowning, “he was more than that. I took care of him, I protected him, I was there for him every step of the way. And he didn’t just watch me fall, he pushed me down.”

“Exactly. Why are we even arguing about this?”

Eduardo turns around and sits on the bay window seat, clasping his hands together. “Today I did everything wrong. I looked incredibly guilty. I had every motive, every opportunity to leak all that information. To destroy Facebook. But Mark.” He shakes his head and laughs a little. “Mark spent the whole day and night trying to clear me. I think he would have spent days on it. He abandoned all his coding, all his concerns about the most important thing to him. To save the man who, for all accounts and purposes, tried to ruin everything he held dear.

“I loved Mark first. And I loved him strongest.” Eduardo smiles even though he thinks there is a suspicious amount of water in his eyes. “But you know what I found out? Mark loved me longest. So yeah. Yeah, it’s worth my life. If it came down to that.”

Sabrina’s face contorts in anguish. “I won’t go to your funeral.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that your acquiescence?”

She shakes her head at him in disbelief. “I have never been more livid at you than I am now.” She spins on her heel. “At least get a new cell phone so we can communicate in the field.”

“Thank you, Rina,” he says, because he knows how difficult this is for her.

“It’s not my problem if you’ve suddenly gone suicidal.” She leaves in a storm of stomping feet and slamming doors.

Chris pokes his head in a couple minutes later. “Hey.”

Eduardo smiles at him. “Hey.”

Chris looks down the hall, then back at Eduardo. “Is everything okay? Sabrina seems kind of upset.”

Eduardo nods and alights from his seat. “What are you talking about? That’s her happy mood.” He throws an arm around Chris’s shoulders and leads him the living room. “Now tell me. Do you want to get a miserable three hours of sleep, or would you rather watch _Tron_ with me?”

Chris snorts. “Is my reply even necessary?”

“Not in the least.”

&&&

The really great thing about the CIA is that they’re all about the results. So even though Eduardo has technically gone rogue, he’s still entrenched far deeper into Facebook than any other operative. And the CIA decides to let the situation play out, a true sink or swim manifestation (and Eduardo is used to that, his father practically wrote the book on tough love. Or parenting. He’s still not sure if his father viewed love as a requirement to parenthood). If it’s a success, Eduardo will probably be promoted again. If it fails, well, he’s not going to think about that right now.

After Eduardo settles back into his office (and arranges more cameras in inconspicuous hiding places), Dustin appears, hovering hesitantly around his door. Dustin fidgets and peers every-so-often through the glass panes, looking away quickly when he meets Eduardo’s gaze. After three minutes it gets boring and Eduardo walks over to the door, opening it.

“Dustin?”

He peers up at Eduardo, eyes wide and apologetic. “Are you mad at me?”

“Wh – ”

“You won’t answer my phone calls or texts and I know I accused you yesterday, but I was just stressed out and please don’t hate me, everyone hates me, Mark and Chris are always so mean to me, you’re the only one who’s nice. Wardoooooo.”

He has to stop to breathe and Eduardo takes that time to smile, his eyes crinkling in the process. “Dustin, dude. My phone broke, I had to get a new one.”

Dustin pauses a moment, before switching to apprehensive belief. “Really?”

Eduardo holds his arms open. “Do I have to hug you to convince you?”

Dustin chortles, peering around the area because now everyone is staring (and when Eduardo’s life has turned into a daily soap opera for the employees of Facebook he doesn’t know, but he can probably guess it started when he first set foot on the premises. Give or take a minute). “Shut up, Wardo.”

Eduardo shrugs. “You first.”

Dustin giggles and punches his shoulder lightly. “You busy with anything important?”

Eduardo kind of wants to say _“Yeah, I’m saving the world but I could use a break,”_ but he remembers he has Chris to talk about spy stuff to now and he shouldn’t be so greedy (but he is greedy, he always has been. He wants everything life can give him and he’ll fight to get it). Instead he says, “What do you have in mind?”

Dustin clasps his hands together and bounces on his heels. “There’s a Playstation in the executive break room. And I need to kick someone’s butt before Mark wakes up again.”

Eduardo blinks at Dustin several times before he says, “Mark’s asleep?” Dustin nods. “At Facebook.”

Dustin nods again. “Yeah, he’s crashing on the couch.” He flaps his hand dismissively. “He does it all the time, it’s no big deal. That’s why he has a couch in his office.”

Eduardo gapes at him. “What the hell is wrong with everyone in this company? Mark is not a robot!”

He pushes past Dustin who yells back to him, “That has yet to be disproven! JUST SAYING.”

Eduardo bounds up the stairs to the programming department, skirting around the desks and computers and the unusually quiet analysts. He slows when he approaches Mark’s office, lights off and blinds drawn. He nods in acknowledgement to Mark’s receptionist.

“Is he asleep?” he asks, pointing to the office. The receptionist nods and Eduardo resists the urge to scold her. She probably has no choice in whether Mark stubbornly decides to crash at the office or not (but she should, he thinks irrationally. Because Mark needs to be cared for, it’s an insistent knowledge that overtakes Eduardo’s mind).

He sighs and creeps quietly to the door, opening it slowly and with no noise (spy training at its finest. This was totally what they envisioned he would use it for. _Totally_ ). The room is dark, the only light from slivers of noon light sneaking through the gaps in the blinds. Mark is curled up on the couch, limbs awkwardly balanced on the edge of the couch and a blanket falling precariously to the floor. Eduardo crouches in front of him, taking a moment to consider him.

Mark can stay awake for days, but when he crashes, it’s almost like he’s dead (Eduardo checked for a pulse in a panic the first few times he witnessed it). His arms and legs are relaxed, his lips slightly open to breath in soft, shallow puffs of air. But his brows are furrowed and they twitch every so often. Eduardo reaches out a hand but hesitates, lets his hand hover awkwardly. If this was years ago at Harvard, he would have no qualms with touching Mark while he slept (it went with the territory of best friends and arms thrown around shoulders and eyes meeting over the heads of other people like they were sharing a secret, communicating in code). But now it feels so intimate, like it’s a privilege that needs to be earned (like he needs – wants – Mark’s permission, like it means something more than it should).

Eduardo decides he’s being ridiculous again and closes the gap between his hand and Mark. He presses his fingers softly to the crease created by Mark’s eyebrows, smoothing it gently, rubbing his thumb firmly and with precise care across the middle of Mark’s forehead. Mark’s brows relax and his lips lift slightly for a second, an almost chuckle escaping on his exhalation.

It is one of the most beautiful sights Eduardo has ever seen.

And suddenly Eduardo can’t breathe properly anymore. His thighs can no longer support his weight and he topples the small distance to the ground, limbs spread out awkwardly. He’s staring at Mark, mouth agape and eyes shifting back and forth over Mark’s face rapidly. Because he knows (he finally recognizes and he _knows_ , in the depths of his soul, with the same certainty that he knows of his own existence, in the same way he knows one plus one is two).

He wants this. He wants to watch Mark sleep, he wants to have stupid movie marathons, he wants to argue and throw things to get Mark to _react_. He wants to share looks over Dustin’s head, he wants to take photos with him and never post them online because they’re for _them only_. He wants to touch Mark freely and have Mark touch him, he wants to make him dinner, to make him sleep and to be the only one who can pull him away from that damn computer. He wants to protect Mark and rely on him and lean his head next to his on Sunday afternoons.

He doesn’t want Harvard back, or a time when they were creating something beautiful, something that changed the world. They had something back then, something close to what he wants now (and maybe he has always wanted it, but he never let himself consider the possibility. Maybe it was because they were best friends, and so _close_ to that perfect something that he never allowed himself to want more, to even imagine more).

But now he sees (because they aren’t friends, but they’re still _them_ and it feels liberating and terrifying and he can finally see it all clearly, so fucking clear and it’s blinding).

He wants _them_. Together. He wants Mark to himself, to claim him forever and always. To tattoo Mark onto his heart, inject him into his blood, etch him into his body so deeply that he’ll breathe out little bits and pieces of Mark with his exhalations. And he wants to be the first thought Mark has in the morning, to be the one face he searches for in a crowd. To have his voice echo through Mark’s mind (like a melody only Mark can hear), to be the one Mark calls when something good or bad (or amusing or stupid) happens, to imprint so strongly on Mark that sometimes Mark will forget they are two separate people.

It’s a heady realization and Eduardo falls onto his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling and focuses on regaining his breath. He does not notice how much time passes but eventually the slits of light shift on the carpeted floor and he hears Mark shifting on the couch.

“Wardo?” Mark asks, sleep still heavy in his voice.

Eduardo isn’t sure he can speak properly yet. He’s pretty sure his face is displaying every single emotion he’s still trying to understand right now and he can’t seem to wrangle control of anything (and finally he understands the sentiment of _falling_ , because there’s no place to hold onto and he’s soaring and plummeting and he can’t get a grip on any of it). He holds up his hand and waves it a little, refusing to sit up and meet Mark’s eyes (because Mark is observant and Eduardo’s skin is paper thin and Mark has never had difficulty seeing his heart).

“What time is it?”

Eduardo checks his watch habitually. “It’s one.”

“Morning or afternoon?”

Eduardo laughs, because only Mark would have to clarify that. “Afternoon.”

“Why are you lying on the floor?”

“I’m considering the ceiling.”

“Oh.” He hears Mark shift but he cannot tell in which direction. “And how are you finding it? Unique, isn’t it? This ceiling, I have been assured, is above the floor, and attaches to the walls. Quite rare, I would imagine. Did you know that –”

“Mark,” Eduardo interrupts because he recognizes Mark is nervous.

“What?”

“Um. Thank you. I know you were the one who cleared me from the leak yesterday.”

Mark makes a dissatisfied grunt. “It was Dustin, wasn’t it?”

Eduardo hems. “Yes and no. He didn’t realize it.” He nudges his foot into Mark’s shin. “Give him a break this time.”

“Why are you always siding with my employees?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Apparently.”

They remain in silence for a few minutes more. Eduardo still refuses to sit up and face Mark, and Mark makes no move to dissuade him.

“Why did you do it?” Eduardo asks, not sure if he’s expecting an answer or not. He’s almost ready to give up and move when he hears Mark answer quietly, hesitantly.

“You asked me to trust you.” Mark sighs. “I owed you that much.”

Eduardo has to close his eyes because he’s not certain he can contain the well of emotions that simple sentence opened up. He’s filled with regret and righteous anger and nostalgia and love and everything he felt, every moment he experienced, every thought he had at that exact moment when he knew his shares were diluted, all erupting behind his eyes. He intakes a shaky breath and runs a hand over his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he is. He’s sorry for what happened, he’s sorry for not being there for Mark, he’s sorry for being here under false pretenses. He’s sorry he can’t go back, he’s sorry they can’t move forward, he’s sorry they met, and he’s sorry they lost so many years. “I…I don’t regret suing you. You shouldn’t have diluted the shares like that. You should have fucking _talked_ to me. But…” He groans and squeezes his eyes even tighter, like that will help him control the pitch of his own voice. “I made mistakes. And I’m sorry. For freezing the accounts and not coming out here when you asked me to. And for letting it go so far.”

He listens in horror to the heavy silence that permeates the office. He hears hushed typing outside the room, and a clock ticking extremely loudly somewhere (and why Mark has a _ticking_ clock and not a digital one puzzles him but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it because his stomach is dropping and his arms feel like lead).

Finally he hears a sound, a small shift, an intake of breath. Mark says in a voice that Eduardo recognizes as overly calm and slow (because when Mark is emotional, he’ll either speed up to get out of the situation as quickly as possible, or slow down like he knows this is the only time he will be able to handle the situation and he needs to do it _right_ ), “You were the wrong CFO for Facebook.”

Eduardo lets out a shaky breath and wills himself to not open his eyes, to not let those emotions spill out in the form of salt and water.

“But you were always the right friend for me. I…” He groans and shifts more. “I should have handled it differently.”

Eduardo moves his hand, opening his eyes and sitting up finally. He looks at Mark and sees his eyes are wide and sincere and maybe just as scared as his feel at the moment. Mark tilts his head and tries to smile but it comes out crooked and lopsided and all sorts of adorable. Eduardo smiles back at him and chuckles.

“Yeah. Okay.” Eduardo nods, his sign of accepting the apology.

“Okay,” Mark repeats before he laughs and falls against the back of the couch. “You can never tell Dustin we had this conversation. He’ll make a collage of it or something.”

Eduardo laughs with Mark in a burst of humor and happiness he cannot contain. “Are you serious?”

Mark nods somberly. “He keeps glitter in his desk drawer for ‘emergency arts-and-crafts needs’. Please remind me why I haven’t fired him yet.”

Eduardo’s eyes dance with amusement. “Because every village needs an idiot?”

“That was on a level of cattiness that I would except from one of the many women I’ve offended. Congratulations, you should feel very proud of yourself.”

Eduardo laughs and rolls back onto the floor, holding his stomach. Mark smirks and toes his stomach playfully.

“Wardo, I can’t have you like this. This is a serious place of business.” There’s a lilt in his voice, a silent chuckle that exists only in his eyes (if it’s possible for a sound to reside in a physical space, but Eduardo isn’t too concerned about that right now. He’s happy and light and _happy_ , truly and honestly free of regret and worry for the first time in years. He wants to enjoy that for a moment longer. He deserves that much, and Mark seems more than content to assist him in that regard).

&&&

There’s a shift in the way they communicate with each other. They share Looks, Eduardo let’s his mouth quirk in That Way (the way Mark knows means he’s sharing a joke or amusement of sorts). Eduardo let’s his hands brush against Mark’s, and Mark shifts ever-so-slightly to lean into Eduardo if the gap is small enough. Chris and Dustin notice the change and whisper loudly amongst themselves.

“Do you think they made up?” Dustin whispers with exaggerated secrecy gestures to Chris one evening when they’re working late on an update in Mark’s office. Mark and Dustin have set up a station of five computers at Mark’s desk, while Chris and Eduardo longue on the couch with their own laptops. Eduardo was invited in for the late-night session even though he really has nothing to do there (which is probably what set Dustin’s suspicious mind aflutter in the first place).

Chris raises his eyebrows and smiles a little. “I do believe you’ll need to retrieve your emergency arts-and-crafts supply.”

“Okay, first? It’s ‘arts-n-crafts’. _‘Nnnnnn’_. Not ‘and’. I don’t know why everyone finds that so hard to remember,” Dustin answers in a huff. “Second?” He squeals. “Yay! It’s like Harvard again. You guys! You guys! We should get stoned!”

Eduardo chuckles and Mark sends him a death glare. “Dustin, I know you. You do not have the ability to program and gossip at the same time. So shut up.”

Dustin just grins. “You’re so adorable, Mark!” He pulls out his phone. “I need a picture of this for my collage.”

Eduardo lolls his head back and tries to suppress his giggles. He finally alights from his position on the couch when Mark is half-way through his rant about why Dustin is single-handedly holding back the advancement of mankind and Chris is enabling him. He closes his laptop and walks over to the desk, setting it down carefully. He catches a pause in Mark’s speech to say, “I’m going to get some dinner. Anything you want?”

Mark shrugs. “Whatever you pick up is fine. Maybe some more Red Vines.”

“I want Thai food,” Dustin pips up. “Make it extra extra spicy.”

Eduardo looks over to Chris who nods his assent. He smiles. “Thai food it is.” He walks towards the door, letting his hand brush through Mark’s hair lightly on the way. He grins when Dustin squeals again and slips out of the room just as Mark sends him a look that says “I hate you. I hate you so much, how could you do that and leave me here with this idiot?”. It’s very amusing and he has to bite his lip to control himself.

But his smile does not last very long because once he reaches the second floor, he spots Sabrina, creeping quickly along a corridor with her pocket knife ready in her hand. She stops when she sees Eduardo and sighs in defeat. She jogs quickly up to him.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks in a hushed whisper.

“There’s suspicious activity. Several sources of suspicious activity, actually. I’m handling it.”

“With your _weapon_? And you didn’t bother to inform me?”

She glares at him. “There is only one of us here who has a problem with fucking avoiding unnecessary danger. And it’s not me.” A beat. “It’s you.”

He grips her arm and looks straight into her eyes. “I don’t care if you disagree with who I’m handling this, you need to tell me about these things.” She rolls her eyes but he tightens his grip. “Understand?”

“Do you understand that this is an assignment and not a fucking role-playing therapy session?”

He ignores her. “Bring me up to speed. _Now_.”

She sneers but quickly relates what Dave told her. There are several pockets of low but strange activity in the network. It’s all within the system, though, so they know the mole is active _in the building_ at the moment.

“Which is why they set up several spots of activity,” Sabrina explains. “So I can’t go to one location and kill them. Noooooo, I have to run around. In my heels.” She sighs. “Yolanda’s here and she’s clearing the top floors. I’m clearing the bottom ones.” She pushes him towards the exit. “And you should leave now and not come back until we tell you it’s safe.”

“Like hell you will.” He’s already heading back up the stairs. “I’ll clear the next floor. You finish here and then meet up with Yolanda to help her clear from the top down.”

“Why the fuck would I do that? You’re the one in more peril. The mole knows who you are, remember?”

His voice is stern and authoritative when he answers. “Because Yolanda has very little experience with potentially armed targets and if you were anywhere near the kind of agent you think you are, you would have realized that before sending her off on her own.” He bounds up the rest of the stairs before he can say any more (and already guilt is clawing at his chest because maybe he was a little harsh on Sabrina but she needs to know they are a team and they work _together_ ).

He gets Dave to send him the coordinates of the sources. There are three on his floor and he quickly clears the first two. He enters the third location cautiously. It’s a break room with several computer terminals set up for games and probably twitting and youtube and illegal downloading. He checks the entrance and around the room but he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. In fact, not one of the computers is on.

Which is what makes him pause and he scans the terminals carefully. His patience is rewarded when he notices all of the monitors are off, but one of the desktops still has a bright blue light on, hidden hurriedly under scraps of paper. He rushes to the terminal and presses the button on the side of the monitor to turn it on.

And suddenly there are streams of code, one after another, racing across the screen, numbers and letters in no recognizable pattern. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know code, he wishes Mark were here because Mark would know what all of this _means_. But he does have the presence of mind to activate the default company spy software installed on all computers (Chris insisted on it in case they needed to keep tabs on any employee but Mark keeps it deactivated for the most part. He wants his programmers to feel free to create however they can, and if that means browsing porn on company time, he doesn’t give a fuck, as long as his site _works_ ).

He’s so absorbed in chasing the streaming data, in retracing its steps that he hardly notices a shifting shadow behind him.

He swears and tries to evade the strike but his assailant has already plunged a knife into his side. He lets out a pained cry. He grabs at the assailant, a dark mass of limbs and no distinguishing features. He manages to knock the person onto the floor with him. They struggle, throwing punches and strategic kicks until Eduardo starts to feel faint and dizzy. He’s disoriented and there’s so much pain radiating from his side. He groans and clutches his side, his fingers instantly soaking wet with blood (his blood).

The assailant takes the opportunity to wrap his hands around Eduardo’s throat, leaning close to whisper in a disguised voice, “You’ve always been so pathetic, Eduardo.” He says Eduardo’s name like it’s a taunt and chuckles.

Eduardo chokes air into his lungs but manages to smile. He grips his cell phone and presses the emergency panic button on it before he gathers what is left of his strength and reaches for the knife in his side. He steels himself before pulling it out quickly and driving it into the assailant’s thigh. “Fuck you,” he wheezes when the assailant falls over in agony.

“Shit!” The assailant somehow manages to stand and hobbles quickly out of the room, trying to escape.

Eduardo tries to follow him, but only manages to stand before he doubles over in pain.

&&&

It seems like forever before Yolanda and Sabrina charge into the room. Yolanda cries out in horror at Eduardo’s state. He’s breathing harshly and has balled up his shirt, pressing it against his wound to stop the bleeding. His head is bent low and he peers beneath his lashes at him. He tries to smile to reassure them but it ends in a grimace.

Yolanda is rushing to his side, pressing her hands with little mercy on his wound, stopping the bleeding. “Wardo, shit, Wardo, hang on. It’ll be okay, breath with me.”

He scrunches his face up but nods. He knows the drill. This isn’t the worst cut he’s gotten, but it isn’t the best either. “I’m dying,” he manages to choke out and Sabrina looks like she’s going to kill him.

“I told you,” she mutters. “I told you, you no good, stubborn asshole!” She balls her hands into fists and stifles a scream.

Yolanda has her arm wrapped around his middle and she looks over to Sabrina. “We need to get him out of here. Sabrina, you can yell at him later when he’s healing. Right now we need to sew him back up.”

Sabrina nods, refusing to look at Eduardo. She goes over to him and wraps her arm around his back on the opposite side of Yolanda. “I hate you. I hate you, I wish I never met you.”

Eduardo nods, biting his teeth together to keep quiet as they walk him from the room. His legs drag a bit but he somehow manages to advance forward. His knees give way a couple of times but Yolanda and Sabrina are strong and he’s never been so grateful for them before in his life.

“You should – ” He has to gasp in a breath and it sends pain shooting through his left side. He takes several calming breaths before he continues. “You should go after him. He’s here, he was at least.”

“Not going to happen,” Sabrina grits out between her teeth.

“He’s wounded, I got him in the thigh. You can still catch – ”

“Wardo, _no_! Shut the fuck up and let someone take care of you for once,” Yolanda hisses.

Eduardo and Sabrina stare at her in shock for a moment because she only ever yells at video games. Eduardo bends his head down. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Not sorry enough.” Yolanda stops when they pass a bathroom. “Here, I can stitch him up in here.”

They lead him into the bathroom. Sabrina turns the lights on and they slide him down the wall by the sinks so he can sit. He groans, clutching his side and squeezing his eyes shut.

Yolanda turns to Sabrina. “My first aid kit is in the car, I’ll run and get it. Stay here and keep pressure on the wound. I don’t think Wardo can manage by himself.”

Sabrina kneels by Eduardo and presses with her considerable might against his side. He jerks and lets out a sharp cry.

“Fuck! Rina. Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow ow.” He takes several shallow breaths and bangs his head against the wall. “Too hard.”

“You fucking deserve it.” But she relents and shifts, straddling him so she can keep the pressure even and effective.

“You need to call Chris. We need to run the data. There’s blood all over the break room. Fuck, oh fuck! What if Mark finds out?” He opens his eyes and they’re wide with terror. “They’re expecting me back any minute now. Shit, shit. Mark can’t know!” His breathing is quickening and Sabrina slaps his face lightly to snap him out of it.

“Calm the fuck down. Calm down.”

He nods and moans at the action. He reaches a hand up to Sabrina’s waist to steady his now-swirling head. “Fuck.”

The door creaks open and Sabrina snaps her head up quickly.

“Is there anyone in here? Oh, shit! Sorry! Oh, _shit_ , Mr. Saverin, sorry! So sorry!” It’s Dustin’s receptionist, Tom or Timothy or something like that.

Sabrina glowers at him and bends over Eduardo further so as to hide the blood-soaked shirt at his side. “We’re busy.”

Tom (or Tim?) nods and hurriedly leaves the bathroom.

Eduardo tries to get up but Sabrina pushes him back down. “Sabrina, shit. I have to stop him. He’s going to tell Dustin and – ” He moans as the pain intensifies for a very long moment. “They can’t find out I’m hurt, they can’t – ”

“Saverin! Tom saw a billionaire in the bathroom with his shirt off, moaning, with the hot girl he’s been flirting with for weeks on top of him. I think his mind jumped to other conclusions.”

Eduardo manages a crooked twist of his lips that was meant as a smile. “Ha. Yeah. Okay.”

Yolanda returns soon with her first aid kit (which is a little more than the recommended first aid kit). She sends Sabrina out to rid the break room of any evidence of Eduardo’s presence as she preps Eduardo for what she calls “minor surgery”.

She pulls back the shirt and cleans the skin around the wound. She breathes a little easier than she had been before. “Oh, it’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Eduardo repeats in disbelief. “I’m going to _die_. Shit.”

“Yes, yes. You’re dying and you can’t feel your legs and I should say goodbye to your mother, I know the drill.” She pulls a bottle of scotch from her satchel. She pours a healthy amount onto the wound, takes a few gulps for herself, before shoving the bottle into Eduardo’s hands. “Drink up.”

He nods and gulps the alcohol as quickly as he can without choking, closing his eyes when he sees Yolanda run a needle through her lighter. He makes a keening noise in the back of his throat. “Shit, do I really have to get stitches?”

“Just a few.” She pats his cheek lightly and says in a baby voice, “I think you’ll be okay.”

He’s halfway to drunk by the time she sticks the needle into his skin, sewing him closed like a fucking quilt. He can’t watch so he turns his head away and downs more of the scotch (which is really a terrible brand, too. Yolanda went for the cheap kind. He tells her his opinion but she hums dismissively and squints in concentration).

Before Yolanda finishes, Sabrina reappears with Dave and Chris. Eduardo cringes and glares at her as best as he can (which is a very paltry attempt, so it turns into more of a pout).

Chris’s eyes are wide with terror and he’s running his hands through his hair repeatedly. “Wardo?” he breaths out. “Oh my g – ” His breathing quickens and he grips his hair tightly. “How – are you going to be okay?” He turns to Sabrina. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. Until I kill him.” She glares at Eduardo. “I’m going to _fucking kill you_. I told you, I fucking _told_ you.”

Dave kneels next to Eduardo and puts a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Eduardo answers. He quirks his lips. “It’s okay. I’m fine.” Dave doesn’t look convinced but he repeats with more sincerity, “I’m _fine_. Don’t let Rina scare you.” He turns to address Chris. “Really, I’m fine.”

Chris is leaning against the door, and nods numbly. “Shit. Wardo, _shit_ , you just got knifed. In real life. And you’re getting fucking sewn up in a bathroom and you’re fine?” He grips his hands at his sides. “I don’t even. How are you even. This is going to be so cool when I think about it tomorrow but right now I’m freaking out. Okay?”

Eduardo chuckles but it hurts his side so he sobers quickly and settles for a nod. “Did – ah! Landa, seriously!”

Yolanda is tying off the stitches. “You’re all done.” She fishes out a lollipop from her satchel and hands it to him with a grin. “And here’s your reward.”

Eduardo frowns at her patronizing tone but pops the lollipop into his mouth anyway (because it’s cherry and he likes cherry, okay?). He manages to stand by himself despite Dave’s offer to help him up. He turns to Sabrina. “Did you take care of the room?”

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I cleaned up _your_ mess.”

He gives her a half hug. “Thank you.”

“You are so in for a lecture tonight. And once your wound is healed, I’m going to kick your ass.”

He nods against her head. “I figured.” He hobbles over to Chris. “So, uh. What are we going to tell Mark and Dustin?”

Chris rubs his face. “I don’t know.” He sighs and takes in Eduardo’s appearance. “It’ll probably be more convincing if you just tell them you’re tired and want to go home. Say you have a video conference or something you have to get up for really early in the morning.”

Eduardo grins. “Whatever Mark is paying you for your public relations services, it isn’t enough.”

Chris sighs again but manages a small smile. “You’ll need a shirt.”

Eduardo glances down at himself and smirks. “Yeah. I guess I will.”

“Come on, I have some spare clothes in my office.”

Eduardo borrows one of Chris’s spare polos (because Chris has to pull all-nighters at Facebook too, but unlike Mark, he actually cares about the image he presents to others). Yolanda and Dave have gone to get the Thai food Eduardo promised on Chris’s reminder (because Eduardo was gone a long time and it would look overly suspicious if he didn’t come back with at least the food).

Eduardo takes a seat by Chris’s desk and breaths out a little as Chris helps him into the shirt. “I swear, I’m usually really good at making up excuses.” Chris pulls the shirt over Eduardo’s head and Eduardo swats him away, adjusting the fabric himself. “It’s just when I get in front of you or Dustin or Mark, my mind goes blank and there’s nothing. It’s really frustrating.”

Chris tilts his head and smiles kindly. “You’re not used to lying to us. That’s a good thing.”

Eduardo scoffs. “Yeah, brilliant.” He stands experimentally and manages to repress a groan.

“Does it hurt?”

Eduardo smirks a little. “Not nearly as much now that Yolanda poured alcohol down my throat.”

“Did someone order Thai food?” Yolanda asks, entering the office with two large bags of food.

Chris tries to take them both but Eduardo grabs one. “I can carry one. Seriously, it’s not that bad. I’m used to it.”

Yolanda smirks. “He dies all the time, it’s really not a big deal.”

Chris looks disbelieving but relents and helps him over to Mark’s office.

Eduardo manages to walk almost properly into the office and presents the food with a wide grin. He ignores the way Mark’s eyes glance, then focus intensely on Eduardo, sweeping over his mussed hair, lingering on his lips (now red from his lollipop), and squinting at his new shirt. He repeats what Chris suggested he say about having an early morning conference call and he really has to leave, but it was fun and he’ll see them tomorrow. Dustin pouts a little but seems to buy his excuse.

But Mark is staring at Eduardo, eyes piercing straight through him, compelling him to tell the truth, to admit what’s going on. He retreats out of the room with a short farewell before he succumbs to it.

Yolanda drives him home (because he _promised_ she could drive the Audi if his life was in peril. He _promised_ , she has witnesses). They march him straight to bed despite his protests (he has to go over the data and call Hugo and they should run tests on the blood because he _did_ stab the assailant, he isn’t completely useless). It’s Dave of all people (the sweet, innocent, adorably bespeckled _Dave_ who slips a sleeping pill into his cup of chocolate milk. He should have known it was strange to be given chocolate milk, the traitors).

He slips into restless unconsciousness, mind ablaze and body exhausted.

&&&

When he wakes up, the sun is high and hot in the clear sky, flooding the room (Dave’s room, they forced him to take the damn bed). He squints and blinks his eyes several times to clear the sleep from them. He is grateful to find a large glass of water waiting for him on the nightstand and takes several gulps (he is less than grateful to find it’s _warm_ and kind of gross but he’ll take it). He downs a couple painkillers that have been left for him.

He gets up slowly from the bed, and finds the wound is sore but he can stand and walk (kind of. Not important). He creeps to the bathroom, checking around for his team. Thankfully it seems that Sabrina went to Facebook already and Yolanda’s car is gone. Dave is in the office on his computers, tapping his feet to his music blaring from his speakers. Eduardo spares a moment to scowl at Dave’s general direction (because he is a _traitor_ and he will never take a glass of anything from him again. Or at least for a couple days).

He finally hobbles to the bathroom and goes through his routine as quickly as he can manage. He hesitates slightly when he reaches to change his bandage, but peeling back the gauze shows that the wound really isn’t as bad as he had thought (so Yolanda was right again, he still thinks he was dying. It’s not his fault he was blessed with killer good looks and apparently immortality). He dresses and slips out of the house before Dave can realize he’s awake. He refuses to feel guilty about it (because they all betrayed him, the _traitors_ , they’re going to have to have a team meeting again to discuss how _he_ is the team LEADER, thank you very much).

When he arrives at Facebook it is well into the afternoon and surprisingly empty on his floor. He frowns as he drops off his things in his office. He heads back out and stops by the reception desk where he thankfully finds Scott.

“Scott, hey!”

Scott jumps and widens his eyes. “Mr. Saverin! You’re here.”

He leans lightly on the reception desk. “Yeah, it looks like it. My question is, where is everyone else?”

Scott tilts his head back and forth like he’s deciding on how to best answer that before he points up to the next floor. “You should probably go upstairs. Like now.”

Eduardo raises an eyebrow but nods his thanks and heads up the stairs. By the time he gets halfway up to the top floor, he hears indistinct murmuring and Mark saying very loudly, “Leave. Now.”

Well shit, this doesn’t bode very well.

Eduardo enters the programming department and holds his breath. Because this is a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. Most of accounting, public relations, and marketing are crowding around the department, trying to get a better view to the show Mark is so graciously performing for them. Mark is standing in front of Sabrina, arms crossed, body stiff, and a death glare on his face. Sabrina has swiveled in her chair to face him, her legs crossed and stilettos tapping impatiently. She has a death glare to match Mark’s. Great.

Dustin and Chris and a woman Eduardo recognizes from the human resources department are trying to diffuse the situation (with very little luck).

Sabrina arches one dark brow perfectly. “I have no reason to leave,” she enunciates clearly, rebelliously.

“I fired you. You longer work for Facebook or its subsidiaries. You need to leave _now_. Is that enough information to make you understand?” he shots back quickly, ice in his voice.

“You have no grounds to dismiss me.”

He scoffs. “I have grounds. I have plenty of grounds.”

“Mark,” Chris tries to interject but is promptly ignored.

“You’re never at your desk when you need to be, you dress inappropriately for the office, frankly I haven’t ruled you out for trying to sabotage the site, but most importantly you slept with Wardo at the office last night. Which is entirely inappropriate and against several of our company policies. You have three minutes to leave the premises.”

“What the _fuck_?” It’s out of Eduardo’s mouth before he can process it, his voice high and cracking in shock and embarrassment. It’s almost comical how _everyone_ in the room cracks their neck in his direction (almost but not really because it’s happening to him and he really wishes he had one of those mind-erasing devices from _Men in Black_ , but he’s no Will Smith so he just has to move on).

Mark glowers at him, eyes sharp and focused and swirling with anger and disappointment something that looks suspiciously like betrayal. He tilts his head challengingly. “Yes, fucking. At the office.”

Sabrina glares at Eduardo as well, but it says something along the lines of _oh you are so dead, I cannot believe you came in here when you’re still recovering, I am going to chain you to a bed and not in the fun way_.

Eduardo grimaces and makes his way over to the cluster of crazy. He nods his head at everyone who’s watching. “Great day, isn’t it? Thanks for joining us for the matinee. Be sure to catch the show after dinner.” His comments succeed only slightly. Some decent people leave, most pretend they have very urgent business that involves standing and shuffling papers (they’re all very convincing). He comes to a stop between Sabrina and Mark. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

Mark meets Eduardo’s eyes and will not back down, a righteous sense of anger and _right_ surrounding his entire body. “Maybe you’d like to explain why you were sleeping with her – ” he points a finger bluntly at Sabrina – “last night. In the bathroom of the Facebook offices, Eduardo.”

“I didn’t, who, how would you even think I did that?”

Mark jerks his head at Dustin but refuses to break eye contact with Eduardo. “Dustin’s assistant told us all about it. And it’s not like you’re exactly a stranger to bathroom sex.”

“Neither are you!” Eduardo exclaims before he catches Dustin’s jaw dropping.

“You guys had sex in the bathroom?” Dustin asks, aghast that they would keep this vital piece of information from him.

“It was during Harvard,” Mark supplies absently.

“You guys were hooking up and never told me? I thought we were friends!” Dustin whines.

“It wasn’t with each other,” Eduardo moans, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Will someone please explain what you’re all talking about?” Chris asks, his eyes wide and just a little apprehensive.

“No one bothered to have sex with _me_ in the bathroom,” Dustin continues.

Sabrina groans in frustration and finally stands from her chair. “This wouldn’t be an issue if it wasn’t Wardo, would it?”

Mark smirks at her. “Oh, you caught me! I don’t want my best friend involved with another crazy ass girlfriend again. Good job there, really.” He raises his voice to announce to the entire room, “And just for the record, anyone who sleeps with Wardo _will_ be fired.”

“Will you _shut up_?” Eduardo exclaims, fury building in his voice. “I can sleep with whoever the fuck I want to. And it’s none of your damn business.”

Mark frowns and glares at him. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “It’s every bit my business. Especially if it happens in my building, at my company.”

“So I can fuck Eduardo in my bed?” Sabrina offers, a malicious smirk playing on her lips. Eduardo is starting to panic because her eyes have glazed over. That means she’s beyond pissed off. She has entered her vicious and lethal stage. This is not good, she’s losing view of the objective (not that Eduardo is one to talk, but everyone is a hypocrite once in their life and he’s damn well earned the privilege).

Mark has also reached critical mass and fists his hand against his side, his back straight and stiff. “You’re admitting you slept with him?”

Her eyes brighten because she’s found Mark’s weak point. “Yeah. And it was _amazing_.”

Mark tilts his head in anger. “I hope it was worth it because you will never find work ever again. Where the fuck is security?”

Sabrina opens her mouth to taunt him more but Eduardo steps next to her, jerking her, and whispers harshly in her ear, “Stop it, Rina!”

The use of her name, her _real_ name jolts her back and her eyes clear. She holds his gaze, her eyes wide and apologetic. But their eyes are jarred quickly because Mark grabs Eduardo’s arm and tugs him callously back to his side.

Eduardo lets out a sharp cry and bends in pain, clutching his wound which he prays did not open. Mark drops his hand hurriedly like it burns. His eyes have softened and are wide with worry.

“Wardo? Wardo are you okay?”

Sabrina bends and tries to steady Eduardo but he holds her at a distance, not wanting to complicate the situation any more than it already is. He clenches his teeth but manages to straighten himself. “Chris, do you think you can handle this mess?” he asks.

“Yeah, I can.” A beat. “Dustin, close your mouth.”

“I can’t even, dude,” Dustin answers. “I can’t even.”

Eduardo glares at Mark. “Come with me.” He doesn’t look behind him to see if Mark is following him. He opens the door to a conference room (one of the few with solid walls). He sits on the table and takes in a few deep breaths to ease the pain radiating from his wound.

Mark follows and closes the door behind him. He considers Eduardo for a moment before advancing on him, displacing Eduardo’s hands over his wound. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Eduardo shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”

Mark stares at him, raising an eyebrow.

Eduardo grimaces and bows his head. “I spilt coffee on myself this morning. I burned myself pretty badly, but I’ve bandaged it and it’s fine. I’m fine, okay?” He meets Mark’s eyes and pleads with him to let this go.

Mark narrows his eyes, hands still pressing lightly at Eduardo’s side.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Eduardo says, redirecting the conversation away from his wound.

Mark scowls and backs up a few paces, crossing his arms (effectively cutting himself off from Eduardo and the conversation). “Sure.”

“I really didn’t.”

“She said you did.”

“She was trying to rile you up.” Mark ignores him and Eduardo tilts his head. “And it worked.” He waits a beat before continuing. “Mark, why did it work?”

Mark frowns, shifting his feet. “It didn’t work.”

“Do you like me? _Like_ like me?” He doesn’t even question why that came out of his mouth. It’s something he’s been wanting to know for days, weeks (maybe years, if he’s being quite honest). He knows what he wants now, he wants Mark, he wants _them_. He just needs to know what Mark wants.

Mark stares at him incredulously. “Are you in junior high?”

Eduardo grins, eyes bright and mischievous and there’s a bubbly feeling in his stomach. “You do!”

Mark steps back, jerking his head. He glares at Eduardo who continues to grin inanely at him, laughter in his big brown eyes. Mark purses his lips, contemplating, before his eyes sharpen in resolve. He strides to Eduardo, grabbing his dress shirt in his hands tightly, and tugs him forward.

Mark’s lips are cold and firm like that time so many days ago. But they’re wide and _on Eduardo’s_ and Eduardo closes his eyes, lifting his hands to clutch at Mark’s waist, the hoodie soft and warm under his fingers. He makes a small, happy sound in the back of his throat, opening his mouth to catch Mark’s bottom lip.

Mark groans and presses into Eduardo more, and suddenly there’s a shift, an urgency that takes hold of them both. Mark’s hands are moving into his hair and Mark’s _tongue_ is in his mouth and doing fucking _fantastic_ things. Mark should keep doing that forever. Yeah, that would be good.

Eduardo presses forward, needing Mark closer, needing more. He clutches Mark’s hoodie, tugging him closer. He opens his legs to fit Mark between them. Mark swears and jerks Eduardo’s head to the side, his mouth trailing down his jaw to his throat.

Eduardo moans and manages to open his eyes. “Mark,” he breathes out before he’s silenced again by Mark’s mouth on his, Mark’s hands trailing down his stomach to his waistband and suddenly he realizes _just_ how long it’s been since he last came (the answer is too fucking long). He jerks forward but recoils sharply when his wound (his stupid, stupid wound) reminds him that he is _injured_ and should probably not be engaging in any strenuous activities (he is going to fucking _kill_ the mole. He’s going to torture him and then murder him and then revive him so Eduardo can do it all over again).

With more than a little regret, he grabs Mark’s hands and stills them, pulling back enough to disengage their lips.

“What?” Mark manages to breathe, trying to follow Eduardo’s lips, to regain the blissful contact they had just seconds ago.

Eduardo takes a few seconds to regain his ability to breathe, pressing his lips against Mark’s neck, smiling against his pulse point. “Mark, we’re at the office.”

“So what?” Mark works his hands out of Eduardo’s grip and wraps them around his waist, stroking around to the small of his back.

Eduardo makes another keening noise, scraping his teeth down Mark’s throat lightly. “You just informed the entire company of Facebook how much you disapproved of such behavior. Plus I think you’ll need to fire yourself.”

“I’m CEO, I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He pulls Eduardo’s mouth back to his.

“Mark,” Eduardo scolds into his mouth, even as he catches Mark’s bottom lip lightly between his teeth and tugs playfully.

“Wardo,” Mark moans, fingers digging into Eduardo’s hips, pressing him against his erection.

And fuck, that feels good. That feels really good. A handjob would be fine, that’s not strenuous, Eduardo assures himself.

“I need this,” Mark whispers into Eduardo’s ear and Eduardo nearly comes in his pants.

He makes a strangled noise and brings his hands to Mark’s waistband, tugging the zipper on his shorts down. Mark helps him lower the shorts and boxers until Eduardo can grip Mark, stroking. Mark shudders and moans, pressing his face into Eduardo’s neck and tugging impatiently at the zipper on Eduardo’s dress pants.

“Fuck, Wardo, fuck, fuck,” he breathes, sucking at the juncture between Eduardo’s throat and shoulder.

Eduardo nods silently against Mark’s hair, gasping in gulps of air when Mark finally frees him from his pants and starts to stroke him slowly and deliberately, circling his thumb over the head of Eduardo’s cock. Eduardo jerks into Mark’s hand. “More,” he gasps. “Mark, more.”

Mark lifts his other hand to Eduardo’s hair, tugging him back, eyes dilated and sparking with intense satisfaction at the sight before him. He smiles, lips full and swollen from Eduardo’s attentions. “You look so good, Wardo.” He brings Eduardo’s head down again for another kiss, licking his lips. “So good, and I fucking made you look this way.”

His hand pumps faster and Eduardo groans, jerking his hips, focusing whatever energy he can on keeping his hand firm on Mark’s cock, stroking faster and with less finesse than before. Mark licks into his mouth, tongue encircling his own. Mark is invading all of his senses, all of his thoughts, everything. His head is dizzy with desire and the incessant need to bring Mark closer, to get more of him.

He’s close to the edge, close to losing himself completely, when Mark groans low against his mouth. “Come for me, Wardo.”

“Fuck!” Eduardo squeezes his eyes shut and comes all over Mark’s hand, hips thrusting erratically. He moans against Mark’s throat, still stroking Mark, faster, harder.

“Wardo! So good, so good.” Mark jerks his hips into Eduardo’s strokes, fusing his mouth against his when he comes. Mark melts into Eduardo’s frame, gasping in breath, clutching the edge of the table to support himself.

Eduardo lets out a breathy laugh and kisses the top of Mark’s head. “I hope this room is soundproof.”

Mark smirks and pulls away slightly, his eyelids drooping and his face relaxed. He looks so satisfied and it’s doing all sorts of strange things to Eduardo’s stomach to know that _he_ did that to Mark. “Do you think Dustin is making us a ‘congratulations for hooking up’ collage?”

Eduardo groans. “I will hurt him if he does. I will seriously fucking hurt him.”

Mark laughs, ducking his head to peck Eduardo chastely on the lips. He shifts almost shyly before removing his hoodie and wiping himself clean with it. He offers it to Eduardo but Eduardo’s eyes dance with devilish delight. He shakes his head and brings his hand (the hand covered in Mark’s come) to his mouth, licking the come off of it slowly and deliberately.

Mark’s eyes widen before they grow dark and he jerks Eduardo’s head down to his again, smashing their mouths together in a fevered kiss. “Are you trying to ruin me?” he finally asks, trying to catch his breath.

Eduardo smiles innocently and shoves him away playfully. He zips his pants back up and slides down from the table gingerly, finally aware of his wound again. “You have no idea how badly I can ruin you.”

Mark chokes on his breath.

Eduardo advances to the door, smoothing down his mussed hair but stops when he feels Mark tug on his arm. He looks over his shoulder expectantly.

“Dinner. Tonight. Yeah?”

Eduardo grins. “Yeah.”

&&&

Eduardo tries to sneak down to his office, avoiding as many people as he can. Unfortunately he’s cornered by Sabrina in the back stairwell (damn her instincts, she knew he would take the back stairs). He tries very valiantly not to smile that stupid, inane, completely _obvious_ smile, but apparently he has lost all control of his facial muscles.

“You slept with him?” she accuses.

Eduardo feigns righteous indignation. “What? Why is everyone accusing me of sleeping with someone today? Is it the way I dress? It’s suggestive, isn’t it? You know what, you’re right. I’m going to go through my wardrobe tonight. I’m glad we had this talk.”

He tries to brush past her but she stops him with a hand on his chest. She looks less angry and more concerned (there’s even a hint of pity in her eyes and Eduardo’s stomach drops because this thing with Mark is new and fragile and something he wants so badly and he knows, he just knows Sabrina is going to ruin it with her logic).

“You promised me you would let me know when you were too far gone.”

“Rina, I’m handling this.”

“But you’re not!” she explodes at him. “You’re inching closer and closer to the edge and you don’t even realize you’ve fallen off of it three steps ago!” She looks away from him and swallows, crossing her arms. When she speaks again, her voice is back at a normal level. “It’s not like I don’t know what it’s like. You fall for someone and it’s fresh and new and you think she’s the only one who gets you, that she’s your whole world. But she’s not. He’s not.” She shrugs her shoulders uncomfortably. “We, us, the team, we’re all we have in this world, Wardo. Don’t jeopardize that for a fling.”

Eduardo feels anger rise through his stomach, boiling through his blood, clouding his mind. “It’s not a fucking _fling_ , okay? It’s Mark. It’s everything I’ve been wanting, what I waited years for. This was before you. Before the team, before everything.” His voice cracks but he continues, pointing his arm in the direction of Mark’s office. “He is my point of origin.”

Sabrina steps back, hurt and disbelief and so much righteous anger swirling through her eyes (it’s a familiar expression but he’s used to seeing it reflected back at him on a mirror). “Your point of origin _broke you_.”

Eduardo opens his mouth to defend Mark, to explain that it was both of their faults, and Sean’s and the pulsing, living entity that was Facebook (that intangible life that grew faster, bigger, higher than anyone ever imagined). But Sabrina continues on, anger sharpening her voice like a thousand little knives sent past his skin and into his heart. “What happens when it’s all over? Who’s going to pick up the pieces of your life then?”

His expression hardens. “My life shattered once and I managed to put it back together without anyone’s help.”

She jerks as if she’s been slapped, stiffening quickly. “If you think you weren’t a shattered shell of a man when we met, you’re deluded.” She walks past him, purposely shoving him over to make way for her. “Don’t come crying to me when he breaks you again.”

He slumps against the cold concrete wall and closes his eyes, feeling a heavy weight settle in his chest (to the left, in that empty hollow that pulses Mark’s name, shooting it down his veins, mixing with that blue liquid until it circles around again, so perfect in its circulation he forgets where it started).

He wants to ignore everything Sabrina said. He wants to reassure himself she’s bitter and she just doesn’t understand (and she doesn’t). Mark won’t break him again, he knows with a sinking feeling.

Eduardo is the one who can break Mark.

&&&

Fortunately for Eduardo, he doesn’t have to dwell on Sabrina’s unwelcome words for long. Dustin finds him in his office, plopping down opposite Eduardo and grinning slyly.

Eduardo peers up at him from his computer screen. “Did you need something, Dustin?”

Dustin tilts his head back and forth, that grin still plastered on his lips.

“What?”

“Mmm.” Dustin’s eyes are twinkling now.

Eduardo sighs and pushes back slightly from his desk, turning his full attention to Dustin. “Is there something you’d like to get off your chest?”

“You guys totally hooked up, didn’t you?”

Eduardo bites his lips to restrain a smile that threatens to overtake his face and shrugs his shoulders, making a noncommittal sound.

Dustin leans forward intently. “Are you dating?”

“I – ” Eduardo squints and purses his lips. Are they dating? “I’m having dinner tonight with Mark. I think that’s a date. That’s a date. Is that a date?” He turns his eyes hopefully to Dustin.

Dustin grins and nods. “Mark seems to think so.” He whispers conspiratorially, “He’s sent his assistant to his house to get his suit. I think he made reservations at some fancy restaurant, too. Prepare to be wooed.” Dustin flairs his hands in an overly dramatic fashion.

Eduardo laughs and ducks his head shyly.

“Text me the details later tonight, yeah? You know, if you’re not busy.” Dustin waggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

Eduardo throws a pencil at him lightly. “You’re as bad as Yolanda.”

“Who’s Yolanda?”

Eduardo freezes, the smile falling from his lips momentarily before he forces back to its previous position. “Ah, she’s a girl I know in Singapore.”

Dustin raises his eyebrows, expecting more. “That’s all? Just a girl you know?”

Eduardo clears his throat. “I worked with her on a few projects. She always tried to get me laid.” He smiles fondly and hopes Dustin will accept this explanation. He doesn’t want to lie to him, doesn’t want to cross that unwritten rule of friendship further than he has to.

Dustin scowls. “How very unprofessional. She shouldn’t have tried to get you laid.”

“You’re trying to get me laid.”

“With Mark. It’s completely different.”

“Ah, vastly different.”

Dustin grins again. “Exactly!”

Eduardo smirks and makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Alright, you got your bit of gossip. Now let me do my work.”

Dustin tries to pout but his smile shines through. “Have fun on your lovely-dovey date, Wardo.”

Eduardo swears he heard a _heart_ in Dustin’s tone.

&&&

Eduardo works in relative silence and solitude for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. Sabrina refuses to speak to him and she seems to have placed a similar ban on communication with the other members of the team since he hasn’t heard a thing from them all day except Yolanda’s text that simply said _:(_. He checks to make sure it’s not due to anything, you know, _dangerous_ , but the only evidence he finds is that Sabrina has imposed a cold front and she’s coerced the others into it with her. He sighs and tries to remember what he did last time she implemented one of her bouts of The Silent Treatment (but last time she did that, he was coerced into the cold front against Yolanda because she had the gall to borrow Sabrina’s prized Prada shoes. He hates Prada. So fucking much). He pushes it out of his mind and instead decides to contemplate his date (his _date_ ) with Mark tonight.

That turns out to be a mistake. Because instead of happy, blissful thoughts of dinner and wining and dining, he gets thoughts of every terrible thing that could go wrong. What if he isn’t dressed appropriately? Should he take a shower? He should take a shower. What time was dinner supposed to be at? What if Mark forgot? What if during dinner he discovers he has some sort of bizarre allergy and starts to swell up and _die_?

At twenty minutes past seven he decides he’s going to go insane. So he shoots to his feet and bounds up the stairs to Mark’s office. About half of the department has gone home (because they, you know, have lives) while the other half are still typing like adorable little robots (because they, you know, idolize Mark and stay as long as he does. It’s cute and also horrifying). Sabrina isn’t at her desk but he doubts she has left the building (he can sense her glaring at him through the walls because she has freaking x-ray laser eyes or something).

He skirts around to Mark’s office, nodding at his assistant. “Mark in?” he asks because the shades are down in his office again.

Mark’s assistant nods and smiles at him. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Eduardo cannot suppress his smile because he can _go ahead_. He has access to Mark and he can just waltz in there without an appointment or running it through his people (and maybe Eduardo wants to _be_ his people again, and maybe he can’t let himself admit that just yet but he can still feel it and revel in the warm response it earns him).

He knocks lightly at the door and enters quietly. He stops at the door and stares for a moment at the sight in front of him. Mark is dressed in a suit (which is incredibly rare) and he looks simultaneously awkward and so fucking attractive. He’s attempting to fix his hair in the reflection in his window, unfamiliar, jerky movements of his hands in his hair. Eduardo feels a warm bubble of happiness and smiles. He’s pretty sure he looks overly adoring (but that’s not really a new expression around Mark. He wore that same silly face for the first months he was in Mark’s acquaintance).

He leans his head against the doorframe and calls out lightly, “Hey hot stuff.”

Mark jerks and spins around. He raises his hand in slight acknowledgement. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Eduardo repeats again, eyes crinkling. “You look good.”

Mark shrugs, then adds like an afterthought, “So do you.”

Eduardo laughs. “I look the same as I did at the beginning of the day.”

Mark smirks. “Yeah, I know. I believe I expressed a similar sentiment earlier in the day as well.” He shrugs and there’s a spark in his eye like he knows exactly what memory is playing through Eduardo’s mind right now (breathing labored and mouths hot and _wet_ and hands all over and the slight pleasure-pain of his hair being tugged just the slightest bit too hard). “It bears repeating, though.”

Eduardo lets out a choked laugh and groans lightly. “What are you doing to me?”

Mark advances toward him, an amused curve on his lips. “And here I thought you were going to ruin me.”

Eduardo straightens at the challenge and points his finger faux-menacingly at him. “I will ruin you. Just you wait. I have plans. Dirty, naughty, disgustingly sexy plans.”

“Alright, buttercup.”

“I’m serious.”

“Of course you are.” Mark pats Eduardo’s shoulder condescendingly and bites his lip to keep from smiling.

Eduardo takes advantage of Mark’s proximity and tugs him forward, planting his lips firmly on Mark’s. He feels Mark respond almost instantly, stepping into the kiss, shifting his head to get a better angle. He slides his hand to the back of Eduardo’s neck and urges him closer (just a little closer, closer. This intense need to touch skin-to-skin, to share each other’s warmth, to fuse so close they’ll share the same breath of air, lungs half-starved but bodies so on fire neither will care).

Eduardo sighs into Mark’s mouth before breaking away, his eyes wide and staring, capturing, recording everything about Mark right now (the way his lips are redder than usual, the way he tilts his head just a fraction backwards, the touch of smooth fingers against the back of Eduardo’s neck. The feel of Mark’s hips barely brushing against Eduardo’s, the way their feet intersect – Eduardo’s left, Mark’s right, Eduardo’s right, Mark’s left, a simple pattern like a basic algebraic equation, where x will give them the answer to this, to them, to everything they need to know).

Mark steps back and straightens his jacket, shifting uncomfortably in it. “So,” he starts, voice a little more rough than it had been just minutes ago, “ready to go?”

Eduardo licks his lips and nods, shifting his eyes away from Mark, to try to ease the sudden pressure he feels in his chest. He’s not so sure anymore where his feet are and what he’s doing, but he knows every thought and emotion from the past few weeks (staring at Mark from across the shareholder’s meeting, driving him home in the middle of the night, eating Italian and watching _The Terminator_ , Mark’s thumb on his lip, pleading with Mark to trust him this one time, smoothing Mark’s furrowed brow while he slept. All those desires and urges and undeniable impulses that he hasn’t been able to work his head around) have all accumulated into one reality.

He’s in love with Mark Zuckerberg.

&&&

They drive to the restaurant in Mark’s car, stealing sideways glances at each other, pretending to listen to the music from Mark’s car radio. Eduardo absorbs himself in watching Mark’s face, tinted shades of blue and green and red changing over his skin, reflections from the traffic lights and the clear night sky commandeering Mark for their own artistic purposes.

The restaurant has no windows and looks more akin to some secret society’s meeting place and less like an establishment that serves food. Eduardo knows the type of place, has eaten at several of them over the course of the last few years. The odd tables and closed-off private rooms and freaking uncomfortable chairs all blur together and his mind races back to missions and pretending he’s an investor, an attorney, a security guard looking for just the right bribe. He almost instantly slips into his persona, affecting an easy smile, leaning back too casually in his chair. But when he looks across the table to Mark, to his best friend (this man who has occupied Eduardo’s mind from the moment they were awkwardly introduced at the Jewish frat party), he’s shocked back to reality and he doesn’t know how to act. His body is moving in two different directions, like he’s a stranger in his own skin.

Mark doesn’t look any more comfortable than Eduardo feels. He keeps shifting and cracking his neck, tapping his feet impatiently. He tugs at his clothing, crinkling the sleeves of his suit up to his elbows before they fall down to their original position (a little more wrinkled and disheveled than before). He looks completely out of place and just a tad miserable (which is really not a good sign for a first date. He should have known this would be a disaster).

Eduardo distracts himself by perusing the menu (a highly pretentious menu in Eduardo’s honest opinion, with obscure foods and no prices listed). It’s not like the whole experience is new to him, and he assumes Mark has had to attend several dinners at similar establishments over the years. But this isn’t them. They have always been cold pizza and beer and Eduardo sneaking a multivitamin into Mark’s ice cream while Mark gives him that resigned look (because he Eduardo is nagging and mothering him again, but he eats it anyway for reasons Eduardo never took the time to analyze. It just happened and it was just them and that’s just how things were). And yet here they are, avoiding each other’s eyes in the dimly lit private room that Mark probably had to pay someone very highly for on such short notice. It feels cold and distant and Eduardo almost expects a stenographer to appear at the end of their table at any moment (transcribing carefully chosen words and ignoring the heavy silences and all the words they share that aren’t expressed verbally across that deposition table).

The waiter approaches them, all false smiles and pleasant conversations. He asks if they have decided on a drink and Mark frowns, eyes shifting quickly to the wine list (and maybe Eduardo is projecting, but Mark looks a little overwhelmed at all the choices). Mark finally relays his choice (quickly and sharply like he’s almost challenging the waiter to doubt that he knows exactly what wine he ordered and if it was a good year or not).

The waiter, of course, just smiles and compliments Mark’s good taste, leaving them to fall into silence again. They catch each other’s eyes in the dim lighting after a few tense moments. Eduardo smiles in an attempt to ease his discomfort. Mark nods in response, a stilted movement of his head tilted a bit too far back to be an actual full nod.

Eduardo restrains a sigh. He leans forward and starts, “Mark.”

Mark blinks at him. “What?”

Eduardo gestures his hand around the room. “What is this?”

Mark tilts his head to the side slightly. “A restaurant. People tend to consume food at these establishments but alcohol is really where they make their profit.”

Eduardo resists the urge to roll his eyes. Almost. (Mark is being ridiculous again, okay, and maybe he’s a little hungry and maybe he gets a little cranky when he hasn’t eaten.) “I think I got that.”

Mark shrugs. “Couldn’t tell.”

Eduardo clears his throat and plays with the edges of his menu. “It’s just, you know. Mark, this isn’t…” He sighs and waves his hand dismissively. “Never mind.” He forces a smile on his lips. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

Mark frowns at him, refusing to look away from Eduardo. “It came highly recommended.”

Eduardo nods. “Yeah.” He tries to relax, tries to remember who he is and who he’s with. This isn’t an assignment (but it is), this isn’t a clever ploy (and he’s starting to wonder if this progression he’s made with Mark is just some kind of subconscious motivation to become close to the target. That maybe this is all still part of the mission. The thought terrifies him).

The waiter returns with the wine, thankfully interrupting Eduardo’s thought process. He pours them both half a glass of the rich red liquid, but Mark keeps his eyes focused intensely on Eduardo. Eduardo avoids Mark’s gaze and smiles his thanks to the waiter. He orders the foie gras and Mark absently orders a steak, eyes still only on Eduardo. As soon as the waiter leaves, Eduardo grabs his glass and downs the contents in one gulp, suppressing a cough as it burns down his throat. He wishes he could enjoy this, wishes he didn’t feel like he was play-acting, like this isn’t some sort of prerequisite to advancing in his mission, like this isn’t on his check list, like he didn’t feel so in and out of his element all at the same time.

Mark, of course, has noticed Eduardo’s extreme discomfort. He frowns before decisively pushing his chair back and standing abruptly. He comes over to Eduardo’s side of the table and grabs his arm, hauling him up with little ceremony and no explanation.

“Mark, what are you doing?”

“You don’t like it here. I don’t like it here. I’m not going to sit through an entire fucking meal like this. Let’s go.”

Eduardo stares at Mark before a smile emerges and he laughs lightly. He nods. “Okay.”

They slink out of the restaurant, past the waiters and other patrons enjoying their highly overpriced meals. When they finally make it outside, Eduardo cannot contain his giggles.

“Mark, fuck, did we just dine-and-dash?”

Mark quirks his lips in thought. “We didn’t eat anything.”

“I drank the wine.”

Mark smirks. “Are you ready for your mug shot, Wardo?”

Eduardo gapes and points a finger at Mark. “You’re my accomplice. If I’m going down for this, I’m taking you with me.”

Mark laughs, short and restrained but still so clear and amazing. Eduardo plays it over in his head, trying to memorize the exact pitch and tone, how Mark’s breath rumbled out and drifted between them. Mark fishes his keys out of his pocket and nods his head in the direction of his car. “We should probably make our getaway then.”

Eduardo readily agrees and they half-jog to Mark’s car, both a little out of breath and failing miserably at containing their laughter by the time they peel out of the lot.

“I can’t believe we did that.”

Mark smirks and shifts his shoulders in a way Eduardo assumes was supposed to be cool and badass (but was really kind of cute and he has to resist the urge to ruffle his hair. Mark really, really hates when people ruffle his hair). “Welcome to my world, Wardo. It’s a wild ride.”

Eduardo shoves Mark’s shoulder lightly and bites back his reply (because dining-and-dashing? Yeah, not quite like jumping off the roof of a building onto the adjacent roof to escape a target. Similar, but not quite the same). “You hungry?” he asks instead.

Mark makes a noncommittal sound. “You?”

“Starving.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“How about your place? I can cook something,” Eduardo suggests.

“I don’t have any food.”

“I can just throw something together,” Eduardo starts before he realizes when Mark says he has no food, he probably literally has no food in his place. “Wait, Mark, do you literally have no food at your house?”

Mark keeps his eyes strictly on the road, hands at ten and two on the wheel and back straightening. “I’m never there and I don’t cook anyway.”

Eduardo stares at him incredulously. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I really shouldn’t.” He smiles a little to himself.

Mark glances sideways at him. “I’m a functioning adult. I don’t care what you or Chris or Dustin say. And Dustin really has no right to criticize me to begin with. He’s not exactly the paragon of healthy development.” Eduardo just stares at him, eyebrows raised and lips pressed together to keep from laughing. “I run a multibillion-dollar company. I’m capable of providing for my needs.”

“And you have no food in your house.”

Mark scowls but finally admits, “No. No I do not.”

Eduardo’s control slips momentarily and he laughs, quickly trying to cover it up with a cough. “Ha, um, excuse me. Alright, we’re going grocery shopping. Where’s the nearest market that’s open this late?”

Mark raises an eyebrow at him. “Wardo, I just finished explaining that I have no food in my place. Why would I know where _any_ market was, let alone the closest one?”

Eduardo makes a petulant face. “You’ve never gone to a supermarket? At all? After all the years you’ve lived here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I have. I just…didn’t pay attention to where it was.” Mark glances pointedly at Eduardo. “And I manage to survive just fine. Wardo, stop looking at me like that.”

“You don’t even go to buy laundry detergent?” Mark purses his lips and moves his head slightly to the right. “You don’t even do your laundry, do you?”

“I have more important things to think about then how clean clothes end up in my closet.”

“You don’t even know _how_ it gets done?”

Mark shrugs. “I assume it’s my assistant. Or Dustin.” His eyes narrow in concentration. “It might be Dustin. He’s a lot like you.” He taps his fingers on the wheel in a deliberate rhythm. “It smelled nicer when you did it.”

Eduardo exhales softly, shifting his eyes between Mark and out the window, feeling suddenly very warm and bashful all at the same time (and he should have remembered this is what being with Mark is like. It’s equal parts awe and pride and he never knows if he should bask in it or bury his face in his own sleeve). He clears his throat instead and pulls out his phone, trying to find a market and ignoring the flush working up his neck.

He finally finds a suitable market that Mark somewhat knows how to get to. They only get lost twice even with the GPS (“Why are you turning here?”

“It’s a shortcut.”

“Mark, seriously, you’re going to get us lost.”

“Relax, I know what I’m doing.”

“Mark –”

“Wardo.”

“ _Mark_.”

“ _Wardo_.”

“Ha, ha, you’re so funny.”

“I have a highly sophisticated sense of humor.”

“I weep for intellectica.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is now.”

“You can’t just make up words. That defeats the entire purpose of language. What’s the point of a dictionary if we can just make up random sounds and say they’re words?”

“I’ll send my apologies to Webster.”

“The postage will set you back quite a lot. Delivery to the dead is pricey. You’ll have to hire a zombie or something.”

“Okay, maybe that was a little funny.”

“There’s hope for you yet. Ah, there’s a market.”

“That’s a convenience store.”

“Good enough, right?”

“We’re buying vegetables.”

“Why does everyone think it’s necessary to shove vegetables down my throat? I might die of Vitamin C overdoes one day. What will you all say then?”

“Here lies Mark Zuckerberg, the oldest five-year-old who ever lived?”

“Tsk, there goes all hope I had for your sense of humor.”

“You smiled.”

“Did not.”

“Yeah, you did. Come on. You smiled.”

“Maybe you need glasses.”

“My vision is perfect, just like the rest of my body.”

“That has yet to be proven.”

“You’ll get enough of a chance tonight to evaluate it to your heart’s content.”

“…”

“Mark. Mark, eyes on the road! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What did you expect? You just propositioned me in the car.”

“I am never doing that ever again.”

“Let’s not be hasty now.”).

Mark parks near the shopping carts and Eduardo fishes through the glove box to find a quarter for a cart. Mark makes a face. “Do I really need that much food?”

Eduardo ignores him and inserts the quarter into the cleanest cart available, toying with the chain until it finally gives and releases the metal cage on wheels. “Do I need to reiterate that you have _no_ food at your house?”

Mark rolls his eyes but doesn’t offer any more protestations. Eduardo grins and pushes the cart toward the store, Mark trailing behind him with his hands stuffed into his hoodie.

The entire process feels wholly domestic and Eduardo cannot keep the grin off of his face for too long. The simple experiences of daily civilian life were occurrences Eduardo did not realize he wanted until he knew he could never have it. Despite all the travel and glory and intrigue of working for the CIA, despite the make-shift family he found (and who found him when he needed them most), he never had this. A quiet evening buying food, asking the man he loves for his opinion on whether he wanted cheddar or mozzarella cheese, is a treasure he wants to keep safe and secure in his heart. Because one day he will have to leave all this and he won’t be able to turn his head and see Mark sneaking seven bags of red vines into the cart. Because one day he’ll be long gone and he’ll know he can never see Mark again, and maybe this night will flash through his mind when he reaches for a beer in the aftermath of a mission (warming his blood and reminding him that one time, he wasn’t alone). Because one day he might lie bleeding on the ground and this is the memory he wants to relive in the last lonely seconds of his life.

They reach the cereal aisle that Eduardo asks Mark which kind he wants. Eduardo is partial to Fruit Loops but Mark argues for the qualities of Cocoa Puffs.

“Chocolate for breakfast, Mark?”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “And Fruit Loops is just like a bowl of fiber?”

“It’s _Fruit_ Loops.” Eduardo holds the box between his hands and shakes it enticingly at Mark.

“If I’m going to have sugar for breakfast – and I am, by the way, even you can’t stop that – it’s going to have chocolate in it.” Mark places the box of Cocoa Puffs in the cart before pausing and grabbing an extra box.

Eduardo gapes at him. “Why are there two boxes now? You do not need that much chocolate cereal!”

“The first one is for me. The second one is to spite you.” Mark smirks and leans against the cart.

Eduardo pouts. “I’m not going to eat that. I need my Fruit Loops in the morning.”

Mark’s form slips slightly on the unstable cart. “You’re having breakfast with me?”

Eduardo pauses, trying to gauge Mark’s suddenly blank face. But he can see Mark’s eyes and they’re searching his own face quickly, analyzing, absorbing as much information as they can. Eduardo nods slowly. “I thought that was the plan.” He splays his arms and holds one hand up in a stop motion before continuing, “But, you know, if you wanna take it slower that’s fine too.”

“No!” Mark sort of jumps with the utterance and quickly schools his features to neutrality again. “I mean, I like the pace we have now.”

Eduardo nods. “Okay.”

“The pace were we have sex, I mean.”

Eduardo laughs and checks the aisle to make sure they’re alone. “Maybe you shouldn’t say that where, you know, children could be.”

Mark ignores him and tugs the box of Fruit Loops from him, throwing it into the cart and claiming Eduardo’s now-free hand in his own. Eduardo looks down at their hands, fingers entwined, and his heart almost stops. Mark rarely initiated physical contact with anyone, let alone something so intimate and personal and _affectionate_ , especially in public. But here he is, running his thumb over Eduardo’s and squeezing a little too tightly (like he doesn’t know how much pressure to apply).

Eduardo glances up again and finds Mark is watching him with those intense blue eyes again and his heart still will not start up (and he wonders if he even needs a heart of his own. It seems to have found its way into Mark’s eyes and Mark’s smile and probably Mark’s blood). He breathes out – a huff of air, a precursor to a chuckle or a happy sigh, he never finds out because he leans down and captures Mark’s lips in his own. It’s chaste and restrained because they’re in public and he doesn’t want to get hard in the cereal aisle of the supermarket (because that’s a story only Dustin would think was entertaining). But when he pulls away, Mark is smiling and tugging him back to the cart.

“Come on, we need milk if we’re going to have cereal,” Mark supplies, taking hold of the cart and pushing around to the dairy department.

Eduardo doesn’t let Mark pull his hand out, but places it on the bar of the cart so that they’re both pushing it.

“And I’m not drinking soy milk, no matter how long you stare with those Bambi eyes at me.”

“I do not have Bambi eyes. Who’s been saying I have Bambi eyes?”

Mark chuckles and shrugs. “Everyone ever.”

“I have very manly, very non-Disney, very sexy eyes.”

Mark hems and refuses to make any sort of noise or motion in agreement with Eduardo.

“Mark. Mark! Seriously, I do.”

They spend an hour longer in the store than they need because Eduardo can’t find it in himself to let this end. He wonders if Mark feels the same (if his smile is anything to go by, the answer is a resounding yes).

&&&

Mark immediately goes to change from his suit the moment they reach his house. Eduardo watches with just a touch of lamentation because Mark in a suit is so incredibly rare that he wonders if anyone would even believe that it happened (he takes a couple stealth pictures with his phone just in case). He expects Mark to grab his laptop and code while Eduardo puts the groceries away and cooks, but Mark enters the kitchen – now dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants – and grabs a bag of bananas from Eduardo’s hand. He glances around the room for a moment before decidedly placing the bananas on the countertop beside the fridge.

Eduardo smiles and raises his eyebrows. “That’s where you’re going to put the bananas?”

Mark shrugs. “Where else?”

“Do you have a fruit bowl, maybe?” Eduardo asks but Mark stares at him blankly (and with a little long-suffering sigh barely detectable to the untrained eye. But Eduardo is highly trained in Mark so he spots it almost instantly). “Right, you wouldn’t know.” He throws open several cabinets to examine the contents. He finds pots and pans and several types of plates, making a mental note where everything resides. “How do you even have this much kitchenware?” He pulls out a small device. “You have a Slap Chop. When have you ever used a Slap Chop? Why would you even buy it?”

Mark peers momentarily at the device. “It came with the house,” he states simply.

“A house does not come fully furnished with kitchen supplies.”

“It does when you’re me.”

Eduardo purses his lips but cannot find much fallacy with that logic. Because if anyone could obtain a house completely furnished down to the kitchen and probably linen supplies, it would be Mark Zuckerberg, who doesn’t even appreciate it. Eduardo decides to check for the linen later before he returns to the cupboards to locate the elusive fruit bowl (which he is now absolutely certain resides somewhere in the vicinity). He makes a triumphant shout when he procures not one but two. He hands them to Mark. “Fruit goes in there, please.”

They put the groceries away, grazing past each other and maybe sometimes occasionally bumping into each other – shoulders touching, backs brushing, hands reaching out to steady themselves on each other’s arms, elbows, hips. They flow seamlessly into conversation about nothing in particular, but somehow Eduardo finds he can’t stop laughing and Mark keeps prolonging it, adding little snarky remarks and observations that Eduardo never realized he missed so much (that’s a lie. He knew he missed it, like he missed everything about Mark and what _they_ were together. Eduardo is a master of denial and repression, learnt from an early age to protect, to push forward, to survive, to achieve).

They cook dinner together, Eduardo directing Mark to chop and stir (and no, Mark, you have to stir from the _bottom_ , it’s going to burn). They end up with burnt tomato sauce all over the stove and adjacent counters, several dirty pans, and a mess of utensils neither are quite sure they actually used, but the end product of sloppy joes and cold potato salad looks entirely appetizing so they ignore the mess and sojourn to the living room.

It isn’t until they have long since finished dinner and are almost finished the second episode of their spontaneous _Doctor Who_ marathon that Eduardo notices the way Mark’s eyes shift to him every time Eduardo takes another sip from his third beer bottle. Eduardo thinks it’s just his imagination at first, or maybe a quirk of Mark’s (because he remembers now that Mark used to do the same thing back in Harvard, and maybe that was a very small reason why he developed the habit of taking slow, small sips from his beer to prolong the attention he wasn’t supposed to be aware of. But it was honestly a very small motivation. He just wanted to savor his beer. His cheap, tasteless beer. Yeah). But Eduardo is a man of science (economy is a type of science. It’s math, and math is the fucking patriarch of science, or so his professors always told him) so of course he decides to experiment.

He keeps his eyes focused completely on the television screen and his right arm relaxed against the back of the couch, slowly drawing his left hand with the beer to his lips and pausing. He watches from the corner of his eye as Mark’s eyes shift from the screen to peer sideways at him (in what Eduardo suspects Mark thinks is stealthily. Somehow – and he’ll never really know how – he maintains enough self-control to not burst out laughing. But come the Doctor’s next witty line he’s going to explode, he just knows it). Mark follows Eduardo’s hand until the pauses at his lips. Eduardo lets his hand drop back down to the sidearm of the couch and notes Mark thin his lips and quickly return his attention back to the screen, like he’s been deprived of something. Interesting.

Next, Eduardo takes a very quick gulp of his beer, reaching his hand up and down within a couple seconds. Mark makes a kind of disgruntled noise that he belated tries to suppress. Very interesting.

Eduardo bites his bottom lip to stop from smiling and swirls his beer bottle, highly amused and feeling a definite thrill of empowerment. He’s starting to realize just how much of an effect he has on Mark and it’s intoxicating (he probably should have figured this all out before but to his defense, Mark has a pretty massive effect on him too so he’s been busy dealing with that. So in fact it’s totally not his fault but entirely Mark’s fault. Entirely). He raises the bottle to his lips again, playing with the lip of the opening against his lips.

“What are you doing?” Mark demands suddenly, his body shifted to face Eduardo fully with no pretense of disinterest.

Eduardo turns his head and innocently raises his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“Stop doing that.”

Eduardo tries to hide the smirk playing on his lips so he rubs his free hand over his mouth. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mark stares at him with narrowed eyes, a disbelieving tilt to his lips. He leans over and grabs the beer bottle lodged between Eduardo’s index and middle fingers and places it solidly on the floor beside them. He shifts to hover over Eduardo, imposing and suddenly very masculine, his hands on either side of Eduardo’s head (and Eduardo can see from the corner of his eye Mark’s impressive and strangely erotic forearms and when forearms became so damn sexy he will never know but he’s certainly not going to complain). All Eduardo can see is Mark’s stark blue eyes, all he can smell is that essence that he could never describe but that he’ll always know is Mark, all he can hear is Mark’s breathing and the steady beat of his heart (or maybe his own heart, he really cannot tell the difference at this point, or even why that would be important because Mark is _hovering above him_ like a freaking _tease_ and he won’t _touch him_ and there is no training any high class government agency could teach him that would prepare him for the pleasure-torture that is Mark Zuckerberg. The good taxpayers’ money has been wasted, completely and totally wasted).

Eduardo keeps Mark’s gaze for what seems like an eternity, his nerve-endings growing heated with anticipation and want. He takes several deep breaths but they’re getting faster and more shallow with every expansion of his chest. Impatient, he clutches the front of Mark’s shirt in his hands and tilts his head up to kiss Mark. But Mark retreats slightly, their lips mere fractions of an inch apart but still maddeningly not touching. Eduardo tries again but Mark mirrors Eduardo’s movements so they remain in relatively the same position.

Eduardo makes a frustrated noise in his throat (and it’s most definitely not a whimper. It’s _not_ , honestly), a pout forming on his lips (which are decidedly bereft of a certain genius coder’s). “Mark,” he drawls, tugging slightly at Mark’s shirt. “Don’t be a fucking tease.”

Mark reaches a hand up and trails his thumb over Eduardo’s bottom lip in a move similar to one so many days ago (but now Eduardo knows what Mark’s mouth on his and Mark’s hand on his body feels like, which makes the whole situation a thousand times more excruciating. And no, he doesn’t think he’s being overly dramatic). Mark’s eyes are sparkling with amusement and smugness and oddly even a little bit of awe. His full lips lift in a self-assured smirk (Eduardo’s favorite expression on Mark, the one he would watch and trace and wish he could inspire every second they’re together).

Mark moves his head to the left, still keeping the distance between their lips, and whispers, “Look who’s talking. The fucking bottle, Wardo?”

Eduardo makes a whining sound and quirks his lips sheepishly. “I was just drinking.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Okay, fine.” Eduardo licks his lips, feeling the need for some sort of stimulation on them. “I was conducting an experiment.” When Mark remains silent, Eduardo continues. “Interestingly, you seem to find my drinking habits fascinating.” He smiles in amusement. “Does that turn you on?”

Mark purses his lips momentarily, his thumb still resting on Eduardo’s chin, unmoving but applying a pleasant sort of pressure. “Yup,” he answers bluntly.

Eduardo’s eyes widen. “Shit, Mark.” He tightens his hands in Mark’s shirt and roughly pulls him forward, their lips finally smashing together, hot and wet and not incredibly skilled but full of passion. Their tongues tangle, breaths mixing together. Mark nudges Eduardo to lie down, edging his knee between Eduardo’s thighs, hands settling on his hips. Eduardo runs his hands into Mark’s hair, shifting him not-so-gently to get a better angle, to get more, to get closer (he needs more, more, always more with Mark. He wonders if he’ll ever be satisfied, or even if he wants to be).

Mark breaks from Eduardo’s lips to trail hot, biting kisses down his throat, tilting Eduardo’s head back for better access. Eduardo readily assists him, arching slightly and working his hands under Mark’s hoodie. He scraps his nails softly against Mark’s stomach, up to his chest, grinning at Mark’s ensuing shudder. Mark presses down on Eduardo, undulating his hips once, twice. Eduardo squeezes his eyes shut at the sensation.

Eduardo is so engrossed in everything Mark is doing to him (and everything Mark _will_ be doing to him) that he doesn’t notice immediately when Mark stops dead in his tracks. But after several seconds of a suddenly rigid Mark above him, Eduardo opens his eyes and turns his head to peer more clearly at Mark.

“Hey,” he starts, voice thick and unnatural. He clears his throat and tries again. “Mark, what’s wrong?”

Mark doesn’t turn to meet Eduardo’s eyes but remains motionless and terrifyingly silent.

“Mark?”

Mark applies pressure to Eduardo’s shoulder and it’s only now that Eduardo realizes Mark has worked his shirt off his shoulders (which, okay, that was expected) and it staring with chilling intensity at the left-over scar from the bullet wound Eduardo suffered that time Luke went to the dark side. “Wardo, what is this?”

Eduardo feels a spike of adrenaline shoot through his system. This cannot be happening. No, no, not this, not now. Mark can’t know, he _can’t know_ (he’s not entirely sure why but he feels a deep certainty that whatever happens, Mark can never know). His mind is already fuzzy but now he’s working purely on instinct because his mind has shut down. He sits up, dislodging Mark, and starts to rebutton his shirt. “It’s nothing –”

“It’s a fucking _bullet wound_ ,” Mark seethes between his teeth.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Mark grabs Eduardo’s hands to still them, forcing Eduardo to meet his gaze. “Don’t lie to me.”

Eduardo holds his gaze and says slowly with careful deliberation, “It’s nothing, Mark.”

Mark frowns, eyes narrowing dangerously. A thought seems to occur to him and he’s pulling Eduardo’s shirt up quickly, uncovering his knife wound covered in a bandage, blood seeping through the stark white gauze. “What the _fuck_ –”

Eduardo stands abruptly, wincing at the sudden movement, pacing several steps away from Mark, his mind in a broken loop of no-no-no-no and Mark-can’t-know-he-can’t-know like it’s a cardinal rule.

“What’s going on, Wardo?” Mark asks, his voice settling into that overly-controlled, frigid tone (the one that bites and leaves scars far deeper than skin, straight through to the bone).

“It has nothing to do with you,” Eduardo lies.

“Like hell it does. Why the fuck do you have a bullet wound? And what looks like a fresh one?” He tries to catch Eduardo’s gaze again but this time Eduardo refuses to cooperate. “Are you in trouble?”

Eduardo lets out an ironic laugh, though it sounds a bit bitter and always hysterical. “I’m fine, Mark.”

“Stop saying that!” Mark stands and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Would you stop trying to handle things by yourself for one fucking minute? You’re not very good at it. You’ve never been any good at it.”

Eduardo feels a thread of anger bubble up from his stomach because Mark has never trusted him, because Mark is all-knowing and never acknowledged him, never saw that he could, he can change the world. And Mark will never know because Mark has never allowed himself to see that part of Eduardo (because that means Eduardo might be worthy of Mark and that means he can _leave_ , he can get it into his head that he can do _better_ , that maybe, just maybe, they’re equals).

“You don’t have a right to know,” he finally answers between clenched teeth, slowly and almost tauntingly (he wants to hurt Mark like Mark hurt him).

Mark jerks back momentarily before stepping forward a few steps and uttering, “I have every right to know. I love you.”

Eduardo scoffs, disbelief immediate and effectively killing any symptom of happiness the statement might have invoked. “You have never loved me.”

Several emotions cross Mark’s usually guarded face but Eduardo doesn’t want to categorize them, he’s sick of analyzing and interrupting and piecing together the parts of Mark he so infrequently gets to call his own. “You have _no_ idea what I’ve done for you, what I’ve felt for you over the years.”

“Oh yeah, a hell of a fucking lot, I’m sure,” Eduardo replies sarcastically.

“You think you know me so well but you don’t have a fucking clue,” Mark spits out and tilts his head up.

Eduardo leans forward and drawls out slowly, “You wanted me for my money. And when you didn’t need it anymore, you threw me away.”

Mark makes a jerky movement with his head and steps back. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I know. Why the fuck do you think I sued you?”

Mark nods in determination. “Fine, great. You need to leave.”

 

“Gladly.” Eduardo storms to the door, grabbing his jacket on the way.

Mark follows him through the halls and says coldly, “Don’t bother coming back to Facebook.”

Eduardo ignores the sudden clenching of his heart (kicked out of Facebook again, kicked out of Mark’s life again, kicked out of everything he used to define himself by) and yanks the front door open. He peers behind his shoulder and replies, “Goodbye Mark.”

He slams the door on Mark, on his heart, and on all the stupid, unrealistic fantasies he deluded himself into believing were true.


	2. Chapter 2

&&&

Eduardo is still fuming in his rapidly growing swirl of self-righteous anger and misery when he reaches his home (not his home, the four walls and roof that he inhabits while on this mission. He doesn’t have a home, he doesn’t have friends, he doesn’t have Mark. He’s nothing, he has nothing, again, again, again). Sabrina is sulking in her own bubble of self-righteous anger, holed up in her room. Dave is in the living room with Yolanda, watching a cheesy, unrealistic, disgustingly sweet romantic comedy. It makes Eduardo sick.

“Hey, lover boy, you’re home early,” Yolanda coos, turning around on the couch to rest her elbows on the back of the couch and cup her chin in her palms. “Details please.”

He stares at her, numb and unsure what to say, how to formulate words. His mind isn’t working, not like it should be (but he can hardly remember a time when he could think straight, so maybe he’s just an idiot, a fuck-up, and those rare moments of brilliance were flukes). “We broke up,” he replies finally, voice shaky and raw.

Yolanda’s face drops and instantly she looks concerned and bewildered. “What?”

And now Dave is staring at him with worry and pity in his eyes and the damn romantic lead on the screen is making a declaration of love and it’s all so fake and unreal and stabbing at his psyche (because he heard those words tonight, he _heard them_ , iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou echoing through his veins like a poison and he doesn’t know how to make it _stop_ , please, the world is spinning too fast and he wants off of this ride).

“Shut that crap off,” he snaps, edging his way to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him and turning the lock with a quick flick of his wrist. He turns on the faucet and bends over the sink, hands braced on either side of the structure, taking in slow, deep inhalations of air. It hurts, like his chest isn’t meant to expand that far, like this is an unnatural manipulation of his body (like his body is rejecting the oxygen he needs to survive, like he rejects everything that would keep him alive). He still isn’t exactly sure what just happened, how everything went from absolutely perfect to the end of the world (again, and why is he always on the precipice of heaven and hell, bypassing that elusive, imaginary middle ground where he wants to live, to be?).

He splashes cold water on his face in hopes of reviving his cognitive functioning but all he can see behind his closed lids is Mark’s face telling him _I love you_ , that hurt and vulnerability and anger and hope combining in shades of grey and turquoise and aqua in his eyes (watching, waiting, daring, pleading for Eduardo to know, to believe, to finally _hear_ him, just this once). He presses his lips into a firm line, afraid of the moisture that lurks behind his eyelids, afraid of the words (like _love_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I never deserved you, why couldn’t you see that?_ ) he might let slip out, even if for his own ears only. If he lets those thoughts form into tangible sound, with vibrations and wavelengths and meaning and _significance_ , that would mean it was real, this was real and he had to live with it (there’s no third chance, the universe has been more than generous to him).

There’s a light but insistent knock on the door. Eduardo tries to ignore it but he hears Yolanda from the other side, “Wardy, are you okay sweetie?”

He hesitates before he answers, afraid of breaking down the moment he forces air through his throat, but the words come out like words do, normal and dry and void of emotion. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are. Can I come in anyway?”

He scoffs, drying his face on a towel and muffling a groan in the terrycloth. “No, Yolanda.”

“Okay, yeah, that question was more a polite formality. I’m coming in.”

He lifts his head from the towel and double-checks that the door is locked. “Good luck.”

There is silence for a couple minutes and Eduardo allows himself to resume his wallow in self-pity when he hears clanking noises and Dave shrieking, “This is a rental, we’ll never get the security deposit back!”

“It’s not even our money, sweetheart.”

“It’s someone’s money. Please, Yolanda, oh dear. Wardo can you please just come out?”

There’s a pounding on the door and he hears Sabrina yell, “Saverin, stop acting like a fucking fourteen-year-old girl and get your ass out of the bathroom.”

He lets out a large huff of air, steeling his shoulders and throws open the door. “What?” he snaps, a little more loudly than he anticipated but he’s most certainly not going to apologize for it.

Sabrina scowls at him, arms crossed under her breasts, her hip jutted to the side in annoyance. “Care to explain why you’re acting like a teenage girl? Again.”

“You have your own bathroom,” he replies, ignoring her antagonist question, and points to her, then to Yolanda, who looks the slightest bit disappointed that she has to put away her tools and a– “Is that a laser?”

Yolanda whips the object behind her back. “What? No, what? No. No….What?”

“Where did you even–”

“From your Audi,” Dave supplies helpfully.

“Daveeeee, shut up you little tattletale,” Yolanda whines, bouncing from side-to-side in a mini-tantrum.

Eduardo stares numbly at them, leaning heavily on the door jab, blinking his eyes occasionally. He feels out of place, distant, like he’s observing someone else’s life (and dreaming someone else’s dreams and living someone else’s heartbreak because there’s no way he can go through this again, there’s only so far he can bend until he breaks). “Is that all?” he prompts, wanting nothing else but to shut himself back in the bathroom, run the shower and pretend the water on his face is from the stream above his head. He starts to close the door but Sabrina catches it and forces it open again.

“What happened?” Sabrina finally asks, exasperated and trying to ignore the antics that are occurring because Yolanda has decided to invade Dave’s personal space again.

He flexes his hand on the side of the door, eyes tracing the painted grains in the wood. He swallows before turning his eyes up defiantly. “It’s over, okay? You were right. And I was wrong, like I always am. Happy now?”

Sabrina shifts her eyes guiltily before awkwardly placing her hand on his arm in an attempt to comfort him. “I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t.”

“I did warn you.”

“Stop being a bitch, Rina,” Yolanda sneers, hitting her arm. “Wardo has a broken heart.” She grabs his hand and tugs him out of the doorway into the kitchen. “We need booze and ice cream.” She gasps. “Do you think they make alcoholic ice cream?”

Eduardo tries to resist, tries to hole himself back into the bathroom so he can be alone and wallow in his own misery but Yolanda’s grip is firm and Sabrina is actually collecting ice cream from the freezer. Before he can really realize how it happened, they’re assembled around the kitchen table, eating copious amounts of ice cream straight from the pail and mixing alcohols (Eduardo reminds them that he’s on pain medication so he forgoes the drunken portion of the evening. He almost asks them why they’re drinking when he’s the one who should be drowning in booze, but he lets it slide).

“We should go over there and break his kneecaps,” Sabrina suggests, more than a little tipsy and gorging on chocolate ice cream. She frowns down at her spoon. “I’m going to be so fat in the morning, aren’t I?”

Yolanda waves her hand dismissively. “Nah, it’ll run right through you.”

“Fuck you, you have the metabolism of…something that’s really fast. I hate you,” Sabrina muffles around her spoon.

“I thought we hated Mark Zuckerberg?”

“Oh yeah!” Sabrina slams her hand on the table and turns back to Eduardo. “Let’s go break something of his. Like his kneecaps.”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “We’re not doing anything to Mark. It’s my fault. He did nothing wrong.” He sighs and rests his head on the table. “I fucked it up. Again.”

Yolanda hums sympathetically. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

Sabrina nods vigorously. “That’s exactly it. We’re not normal, Wardo.” She bends her head down to rest on the table so she can look him in the eye. “We can’t have normal relationships. That’s why we joined the CIA.” She whispers loudly in what she thinks is stealthy, “We’re fucked up, you know.” 

Eduardo squints at her but Yolanda continues where Sabrina leaves off.

“That is so true, Rina. So fucking true. Like, my longest relationship is…with you guys.” She grins at them and wrangles an arm around Dave’s neck beside her. “I love you guys.”

“We love you too!” Sabrina exclaims and Eduardo laughs into the table because a drunk Sabrina is a surprisingly affectionate one (and that’s incredibly strange and priceless all at the same time). He glances to Dave to share his smile, but Dave is staring contemplatively at his beer bottle (only his second because Dave doesn’t like drinking. “It hurts my stomach,” he resisted earlier but Yolanda all but poured the first beer down his throat).

Eduardo frowns and reaches a hand across the table to poke at Dave’s. “Hey. What’s up?”

Dave looks up and stares pensively at Eduardo for a moment before shaking his head. “Nothing.” He shifts his chair back and stands. “I have some work to finish up.”

Eduardo sits up straight in his chair, watching Dave’s retreating back, before his attention is once again directed on the two very drunk and now cuddling women at the table. They spend the next hour relating their worst break-ups and wallowing in self-pity. Eduardo feels able to function by the end of it, and he wonders how he ever got through life without them before (but he supposes during his last break-up with Mark, he paid for the companionship of his lawyers. Which is a little pathetic and quite a bit more than sad and definitely explains why he feels the need to send a nice Christmas present to Gretchen every year).

He decides the girls are drunk enough and helps Yolanda and Sabrina into bed, wrangling them into their bathroom to brush their teeth before placing them haphazardly on the bed. Eduardo is only partly successful in avoiding Yolanda’s groping hands (she gets very grabby when drunk, though Dave is usually her victim), but he manages to get the covers over them and shuts the door behind him.

Eduardo settles into the living room, thumbing through his phone while his laptop boots up. He needs to plan, to re-strategize now that he’s banned from Facebook. He cringes at the thought but he has enough sugar in his system now to handle it. For tonight at least.

He glances up when he hears the guest room door open and smiles at Dave standing tentatively in the doorframe. “Going to bed?”

Dave shakes his head. “I was just getting some water.” Dave walks quickly by Eduardo, footsteps padding across the hardwood to the linoleum in the kitchen.

Eduardo taps his fingers against his laptop, frowning and ill at ease about Dave’s standoffishness. He waits until Dave is tip-toeing back to his room behind the couch where Eduardo is sitting. “Dave, take a seat.”

Dave freezes.

Eduardo raises his eyebrows and nods to the recliner perpendicular to him. “Please.”

Dave shifts his eyes away from Eduardo to longingly stare at his open bedroom door before nodding in defeat and sitting down uncertainly in the seat indicated. He sets his glass of water down carefully on a coaster on the coffee table, shoulders stiff and unnatural (but this is Dave so unnatural is usually his natural), and avoids looking directly at Eduardo. He keeps his hands clutched perfectly still on his knees and looks so miserably nervous that Eduardo just wants to envelope him in a great big hug (except Yolanda will find out because she always does somehow and will whine that no one fetched her for that particular moment of family affection).

Instead, Eduardo bluntly asks, “What do you want to say to me?”

“Huh?” Dave jumps, confusion and a bit of guilt written clearly on his face.

“You’ve been debating whether to tell me something or not all night.” He leans back and spreads his hands in an attempt to appear open and accepting. “So what is it?”

Dave shifts his eyes quickly from his knees to Eduardo and back to his knees. He looks like he is about to say something before he shakes his head. “It’s not my place,” he finally whispers.

Eduardo huffs out a sigh that he’s ashamed to admit is impatient. “You’re my teammate and more importantly my friend. I can assure you, it’s your place. Spit it out.”

Dave takes several breaths before he squeezes his eyes shut and fires out rapidly, “I think you set yourself up for destruction and this thing with Mr. Zuckerberg could be easily fixed and generally you’re being an idiot.”

Eduardo makes a squawking sound of surprise and gapes at Dave. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Dave moans, rubbing his hands nervously on his knees.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Eduardo is unsure why he’s reassuring someone who just called him an idiot, but it’s _Dave_. “I, uh. Just a little exposition would be appreciated.”

Dave looks apprehensive and moves to stand. “I should go to bed—”

“Explain, now.”

Dave sighs and slumps back into the chair. “Okay, well, it’s just. I mean, I don’t want to offend you. And you’re the nicest, best, most amazing man I’ve ever met. Seriously.”

Eduardo quirks the side of his lip up. “Yes, of course. I’m fabulous, go on.”

“Um. And you really like Mr. Zuckerberg, right?”

Eduardo’s smile turns a little sad and regretful. “Yeah.”

“And he, um, he likes you too. A lot.”

Eduardo looks down at his hands, intertwining them and avoiding Dave’s hesitant gaze. “Maybe.” _I love you_ sings through his veins, invading his heart and polluting his cells so he can’t fight this infection, his immune system has turned against him.

“So why can’t you just explain it to him? Tell him you’re an agent and okay, maybe you lied to him but you’re doing it to save Facebook. To save the world. That has to count for something, right?” Dave looks so hopeful, so eager to fix this when it isn’t even his problem to begin with.

Eduardo frowns and shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. We need to be careful. Even if Mark won’t say anything, we’re putting his life in danger by letting him know about our assignment.”

“You told Chris.”

Eduardo blinks. “This is completely different.”

“How so?”

“Because Chris is Chris and Mark is Mark and I’m not telling Mark, he can’t know, alright?” He’s breathing faster and maybe freaking out a little bit about the possibility of Mark finding out about his new life, about the CIA and being a part of that world and he doesn’t know why this is affecting him so much.

Dave obviously is sensing Eduardo’s confusion because he blurts out, “This is it, this is the problem. Wardo, you’re an amazing man but you’re self-limiting. You put these arbitrary borders around your life, like you aren’t allowed to try for something, to want something. And I can’t understand why because you’re always pushing the rest of us to be better, to achieve whatever we can imagine.”

Eduardo is shaken. There’s a truth he recognizes in Dave’s words, resonating those unfelt, unconscious thoughts and behaviors into significance. There are things in his life that are like that because they just _are_ (his father constantly compares Eduardo to his business partners’ sons because that’s the way it is, that’s how fathers are, and mothers fail to defend their only sons in the face of it. He’s not supposed to expect more from life. He goes to Harvard because that’s where he’s supposed to go, because that’s the life he decided he wanted, the life his parents and teachers and friends expect from him, and that’s it. He dates Christy because she likes him and he’s supposed to have a girlfriend and that’s the way it is. He doesn’t go to California because he needs to stay in New York, it’s in the plan, he can’t change the plan because it doesn’t work that way. He doesn’t have the power to change the formula. Only Mark could ever accomplish that feat because Mark is the most amazing person to ever breathe).

He wants to say something, to refute what he’s hearing, but Dave continues. “Look, I want to be selfish and say this is okay. That you can stay with us and we’ll be a globe-trotting team forever. But that’s not what’s going to happen. People move on, people grow apart. One day we’ll part and I don’t want you to regret leaving the man you love for a job no one will ever give you recognition for. And maybe it won’t work out with him. And maybe I’m completely wrong.”

He exhales heavily, avoiding Eduardo’s gaze and squeezing his hands tightly but he presses on. “If I’m wrong, and you actually don’t want to pursue this thing with Mr. Zuckerberg, then okay. But I don’t want you to give up because your father taught you that you deserve a finite amount of happiness.”

Eduardo still has no words, he has nothing to say, his mind is shocked into a blank canvas (but it’s not blank, just free of the clutter he’s gathered to hide under. There are strokes of light blue at the corners, where he hides the memory of the first time Mark smiled at him, just for him. There are blotches of red at the top where he tacks the memory of his father dismissing him again, forever, why can’t you be like your sister, you were never supposed to be born. There is a rainbow of colors and forms, shapes and shades that tell the story of his life. And he wonders for the first time if he can extend that canvas, if maybe he doesn’t have to color in the lines).

Dave, apparently unaware of Eduardo’s epiphany, clutches his glass of water and stands. “I-I’m sorry I said that. I’ll just go to bed now. Goodnight Wardo.”

Eduardo stares blankly at the air in front of him for several minutes before muttering, “Well shit.”

&&&

Eduardo doesn’t exactly know what to do with all these new thoughts and feelings and epiphanies floating around in his head, so he does the only logical thing he can think of: he throws himself into work and hopes the thoughts work themselves out, or go away. Either works for him.

He clears his Facebook office out in the wee hours of the morning, making sure Mark is no where to be found. He leaves a vague note for Chris explaining that he will no longer be coming in to Facebook (and no, he does not want to talk about it), and that Sabrina will be taking over as the field lead if he needs to contact them. Judging by the state of his email and his voicemail inboxes, though, Chris is most definitely Not Impressed by his behavior (or Mark’s, because apparently Mark is being tight-lipped about the whole thing as well). He feels sort of bad leaving Chris in the dark but he’s not in a place to even think about any of this, let alone discuss it with Chris (in great detail because Chris is one of those really annoying people who make you dissect your feelings when you’re being irrational and that’s really bad for his whole denial plan).

Dustin, however, is less subtle in his attempts to figure out _what the fuck just happened, you can’t do this to me Wardo_. It takes three days of constant harassment and finally a threat that Dustin is going to come over unannounced and kidnap him before Eduardo finally agrees to meet with Dustin. Alone (he cannot stress this part enough. In no way, shape, or form is Dustin to bring anyone, especially anyone whose name begins with an “m”).

They meet at a coffee shop a few blocks from Facebook. Dustin arrived early and is bouncing his knee against the underside of the table, hands spinning his coffee cup around and around in his fingers, staring intensely and silently at Eduardo for several long seconds. Eduardo remains defiantly silent, a blank expression settled onto his face, his slightly raised eyebrows his only sign of interest.

Finally, Dustin purses his lips and blurts out, “You know, sometimes you need to work on the sex aspect before it gets good.”

Eduardo chokes, hands grasping blindly for his mocha frappe (an unfortunate side-effect of the ice cream binge, since now he simply cannot function without a steady supply of sugar in his system). He takes a few sips and tries to remember how to breathe before he finds Dustin’s (very serious) eyes again. “What?” is all he manages, his jaw slack in shock.

Dustin leans forward and says entirely too sincerely, “You know, you’ve built up this thought of how great the sex will be and it’s a huge disappointment and you think you made a big mistake. And maybe you’re a little embarrassed and so you blamed Mark and Mark blamed you. But it’s okay. It takes a while to find the right rhythm in a new relationship.”

Eduardo opens and closes his mouth several times before he asks tentatively (and in a pitch just a smidgen higher than he normally speaks), “You think Mark and I aren’t talking because the sex was bad?”

“Obviously.”

“No. No. That’s completely. No. _No_.” It’s really all Eduardo can think to say. Because no. Seriously, that is the least of their issues.

Dustin smiles sympathetically and pats Eduardo’s hand. “It’s okay. It’s me, Dustin, your BFF. You can trust me, I just want you and Mark back together. I hardly got to tease either of you and now Mark is being a bitch and you’re running away again. So not fair.”

Eduardo holds up a hand and takes a few breaths before he says slowly and as clearly as he can so that Dustin can understand without a single shred of doubt, “Mark and I did not break up because the sex was bad. We were hardly going out anyway. It was a stupid idea on both of our parts.”

“No, it was a brilliant idea that should have happened years ago.” Dustin leans forward even more and Eduardo is suddenly concerned that he’ll tip the table over with the force of it. “What’s a stupid idea is you two breaking up. Again. And then you’re going to leave again for some overly hot foreign land and not reply to my Facebook pokes and I’ll have to go to five more years of therapy. Who’s going to pay my therapy bills, Wardo? Are you? Are you going to pay my therapy bills?”

Eduardo remember now that conversing with Dustin has always been, and always will be, insane. “What?” he manages, tilting his head in confusion.

Dustin ignores him and continues on his rant. “And I don’t give a crap how delusional Chris seems to think I am, I am a child of divorce and it’s not fair, you hear me? You cannot get my hopes up like this. So you are going to march back to Facebook with me and apologize to Mark, or he’ll apologize to you, I don’t know who’s at fault because _no one will tell me anything_ and if that isn’t proof that I’m a child of divorce, I don’t know what is. You should tell that to Chris, then he’ll have to believe me. I swear, he’s conspiring with my therapist to make me think I’m crazy. I’m not.”

“There are too many things wrong with what you just said, I can’t even begin to reply,” Eduardo responds, a hesitant smile quirking his lips up.

“This is no laughing matter, Wardo. Are you going to at least tell me what happened?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

“You owe me,” Dustin pouts. “You were all BFF with Chris in Harvard and didn’t even acknowledge any of my texts or email or phone calls or Facebook messages and then you up and left for Singapore – and seriously, Wardo? You didn’t have to go half-way across the freaking globe to avoid us, I’m still a little offended – and you didn’t call for years and then you come back and don’t tell us anything—”

“Alright, alright.” Eduardo sighs and gently coaxes Dustin back off the table a little because yeah, he’s starting to tip it and Eduardo spent seven dollars on his frappe, okay? He sighs and peeks at a surprisingly patient Dustin. “So we – Mark and me, I, Mark and I – had an argument.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“I always thought I would be a better Watson. You know, capable of human emotion—”

“Moving along, Wardo. Geez, you’re as bad as me.”

Eduardo smirks but continues. “So, we had an argument and one thing lead to another and now I’m banned from Facebook and we’ll never talk again. The end.”

Dustin attempts to throw a paper napkin at Eduardo’s face but it waffles pathetically in the air for several seconds before landing on the edge of the table, two inches from where Dustin launched it. He makes a face at the traitorous napkin before settling back onto Eduardo. “More. Details. What was the fight about?”

Eduardo clears his throat and wonders just how he should and can answer the question. He decides to be as honest and vague as he can. “We. Uh. He wanted to know some things.” Dustin raises his eyebrows and tilts his head forward to indicate he was listening. “Some things about what I’ve been doing since the whole lawsuit thing.”

“You’ve been investing, right?”

“Uh, sort of?” Eduardo waves his hand. “It’s not important. The fact is I can’t really discuss it with him. Or you. Or anyone. Not right now. And Mark didn’t really like that. And I might have gotten frustrated and we started yelling. And he might have told me he loved me and I might have said he only wanted my money and he never loved me.”

“Oh Wardo, you didn’t.” Dustin moans and lowers his forehead to the table, shaking it against the hard surface.

Eduardo clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in his chair, hands growing cold where they clutch his frappe.

“You don’t really believe that do you?” Dustin asks forlornly, his head still plastered to the table. “Because if you do you’re an idiot and there’s no hope for you and I really will have to kidnap you and lock you in my basement until you can think straight.” His head pops up quickly, eyes pleading.

Eduardo frowns and considers the situation carefully. In his head he knows it’s a very illogical thought. He knows, as much as it pains him he has always known, that Mark cares for him. That Mark held him in a higher regard than anyone else. But then Mark had betrayed him like no one ever had and those two diametrically opposed truths played havoc inside his heart.

“I think,” Eduardo finally ventures, “I think I know it in my head. But it will probably take some time to know it. Um. In here,” he taps his chest to the left where his heart beats because he feels silly saying it out loud.

Dustin appears not entirely satisfied (if the exaggerated eye rolling is anything to go by) but he doesn’t push further. “Fine, wallow in self-pity. See if I care. _But_.” Dustin pauses and leans on the table again, causing Eduardo to rescue his frappe in a hurry. “You’re coming back with me to Facebook and you’re apologizing or Mark will or you can skip it and just kiss and make up, okay?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“HOW IS ANY OF THIS NOT SIMPLE, I JUST SPELLED IT ALL OUT FOR YOU.” Dustin huffs out an annoyed breath. “Don’t make me switch places with my twin and mess with your lives until we all go on a fantastic camping trip together.”

“Are you seriously rehashing the plot of _The Parent Trap_?”

“Whatever it takes, Wardo.” Dustin’s eyes are blazing with excited intensity. “Whatever it takes.”

“You don’t have a twin.”

“ _Whatever it takes_ ,” Dustin repeats vehemently.

“Stop repeating that.”

“Start believing I will fuck up your life if you don’t listen to me.”

Eduardo purses his lips and glares at Dustin, battling with himself in his mind. Dustin’s and Dave’s words are circling around in his mind, broken into segments by Mark’s stilted _iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou_ and the far more pronounced and cutting _You're gonna blame me because you were the business head of the company, and you made a bad business deal with your own company?_. He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. He tries to dissect the issue logically, to figure out just what he should do, what he wants and what he needs. But this isn’t an algorithm and Mark has never been a math problem for him to figure out (try as he might, starting over and over, until the lead from his pencil cuts through the paper, worn thin and useless under every brush of his eraser). He wishes this was like reading the sky, patterns of clouds and precipitation so easy to predict (but hasn’t he been studying Mark like he would the weather network, noting minute changes in the hunch of his shoulders and speed of his fingers like the shifting of the clouds and possibility of precipitation? But clouds don’t scare him to his very core).

He opens his eyes and splays his hands, noting the condensation on his frappe and the way Dustin is thrumming his fingers on the table impatiently. He doesn’t want to face the truth, he doesn’t want to try for happiness and Mark and everything he ever wanted and have it fall flat and fail, again. But he cannot stomach the thought of letting Mark go (of Mark getting _married_ and having a family and loving someone the way he should only love Eduardo). Finally he comes to a conclusion that doesn’t make him want to vomit. “I have some things to take care of. But after that. I’ll tell Mark. I’ll tell him everything.” He tries to convince himself that it’s because he wants to finish the mission first, he wants to make sure Mark and Facebook are safe before he broaches the whole I’m-in-the-CIA-and-only-came-here-and-got-close-to-you-for-an-assignment thing. But he knows he’s fucking terrified to the very root of his being that Mark won’t forgive him, that this will become _real_ , that he will be hurt, _rejected_ again. So he’s buying some time before his world gets turned upside-down again.

“How long will that take?” Dustin whines, clearly not happy with this turn of events.

Eduardo shrugs, much like Mark would (like he’s emulating him, like his body misses everything that is quintessentially Mark and is trying to make up for it on its own).

“You’ll keep in touch? I know where you live, you know,” Dustin warns.

Eduardo smiles and relaxes a little. “Yeah. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Every day?”

“Every other day.”

“Okay.” Dustin smiles and takes a large gulp of his coffee before pausing and asking with a raised eyebrow, “You sure it wasn’t the sex?”

“It wasn’t the sex!”

&&&

So Eduardo dives headfirst into work. He has meetings with Hugo’s team and runs surveillance around Facebook (and if he gets a couple extra shots on the rare occasion that Mark actually leaves the office, so what? No one is checking. Except Yolanda is and she’s giving him all these pitiful looks like he’s the sixteen-year-old never-going-to-get-the-girl sidekick in a teen drama and he has to send her off to fix something or build some type of super spy weapon they don’t need so she’ll stop).

One of Hugo’s most trusted team members, a dashing gentleman named Kamil, takes a job at the Facebook office financial department so that there is at least one more agent in the field.

(“I hate him,” Sabrina informs Eduardo mere moments after their first meeting with him.

Eduardo scoffs. “You hate sunshine and puppies. He’s a perfectly nice human being.”

“And that’s exactly what’s wrong with him. This is an international situation. We’re trained assassins. We’re not nice!”

“I’m nice,” Eduardo defends, pouting slightly.

“You’re bipolar.” Eduardo gapes at her but she continues. “And Yolanda is psychotic and Dave is one panic attack away from agoraphobia. And Kamil _held the door open for me_.”

Eduardo feigns disgust. “Off with his head!”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Never.”

“I will kick your puny little—”

“Ass. Yes, yes, I know.”)

Once Eduardo is sure Sabrina won’t dismember Kamil, he takes his Audi (the love of his life) up to San Francisco to speak with the CIA team that infiltrated the Twitter headquarters. He wonders how they never spoke before, since they’re most likely looking for the same source of funding these moles have (if not the same mole even). It’s more than a little suspicious. Eduardo spends the drive up pondering just how distracted he’s been over the course of the last few weeks (he’s too close to the target. It’s one of the first rules they taught him in all his training. Emotions blind the senses and oppress the mind. How could anyone in the head offices of the CIA think he was the right man for this job?).

He meets the Twitter team, headed by a woman named B (she refuses to supply any more information about her name than that because it’s none of his damn business and she shouldn’t even be talking to him because the director certainly did _not_ okay this and doesn’t he have a history of disobeying orders?). He somehow convinces her to share information (he would like to thank his good looks but he knows it’s because they’ve hit a dead-end on their investigation and they need his information as much as he needs theirs. Still his hair might have a little something to do with it.

“It doesn’t,” B informs him, almost reading his mind. He decides she’s terrifying, in that I’m-your-mother-you-can’t-hide-anything-from-me sort of way).

Through careful consideration of the evidence both parties have gathered, they conclude there are two moles – one at Facebook and one at Twitter, but they are most definitely working together. Eduardo’s team has gotten further in their investigation simply because Eduardo had been able to infiltrate at the top levels of Facebook, whereas the Twitter team had to work their way up.

The Facebook mole started one month before the Twitter mole, and they comb through payroll accounts in painstaking detail to try to find a link, to see new hires or a fluctuation in employee bank accounts. There were several new hires at Facebook and Twitter in the specified time frame but none of them match up to any suspicious activity.

Eduardo spends the better part of a week in San Francisco with them before heading back down to Palo Alto. He and B make an agreement to not inform the director of their little conferences as a precaution. Neither wants to voice their concern over the director’s less than consistent behavior but they’re far too competent in their jobs to jeopardize their teams due to their denial. For now they’ll proceed slowly and without any assumptions.

The drive back down to Palo Alto takes longer than he expected and it starts to rain as soon as he leaves San Francisco. He frowns and concentrates on the road in front of him, unused to driving in the rain. He shifts in his seat and turns the radio up so he doesn’t have to listen to the incessant platter of the rain against the car (a downpour he never expected in California, in the middle of the night, weary and tired and stupidly excited to see his best friend, he’s missed him so much, waiting with drooping eyes for Mark to show up, where is he, _Mark_ ).

He should go back to his house, to his team, to debrief and eat something other than fast food. He should go home and shower and settle down in his pajamas and not pay any attention to the rain. But as soon as he reaches Palo Alto, the sky dark and obscured with heavy rain, he heads for Mark’s house (like it’s habit, like it’s ingrained somewhere in his psyche and he’s too far gone to analyze or care about it. He needs Mark and that’s the only truth he knows anymore).

He parks just down the street from Mark’s driveway, hands gripping the steering wheel tight and watching rain blur his windshield, pouring down in rivers. He stares straight ahead, simultaneously trying to convince himself to _get out of the car and talk to Mark_ (because he misses him and his stupid face and his typing and biting remarks and the way his tongue slides over Eduardo’s lips and into his mouth, among other things) and _turn this car around and go away right now_ (because he’s terrified and Mark is probably still Very Angry at him and what right does he have to ask for more than he’s entitled to and he needs to focus on saving Facebook and how does he even know if Mark is home right now? But he knows because they have that weird sort of connection where Eduardo just knows where Mark is).

So he decides in the only logical fashion he can think of. He flips a coin. Heads-up, he’ll get out of the car and talk to Mark and maybe fix this whole mess. Tails-up, he’ll head back home and focus on his job like he should be doing anyway. He takes a deep breath before throwing the coin up in the air. He catches it quickly, flipping it onto the back of his left hand. He grips his fingers around the palm of his left hand for a moment before carefully peeling them back and revealing the coin.

Heads.

_Heads_.

Okay, okay, he can do this. Heads. Okay. It’s fate, right?

Okay.

Heads.

He throws open the door and alights from the car before he can change his mind. He is immediately assaulted by cold, hard drops of rain, flattening his carefully styled hair and plastering his clothes to his skin, tight and uncomfortable and leaking water down his neck to his back. He lets out a cleansing sigh, watches his breath condense in the air for a moment, and takes a step toward Mark’s house.

And freezes.

Because backing out from Mark’s driveway is an overly large, overly pretentious black SUV Cadillac with tinted black windows (so totally pretentious. And no, an Audi is _not_ pretentious, okay? Because Eduardo fucking _earned_ his Audi). He doesn’t need to see into the windshield to know who’s driving the _fucking pretentious_ SUV. He doesn’t need to, but he’s a masochist so he looks and of course it comes as no surprise that it’s Sean fucking Parker. With his Armani jackets and douchey face and that smirk he’s always wearing like he’s won some sort of life contest (like he deserves _any_ recognition for Facebook, he doesn’t. It’s Mark’s and Eduardo’s and Dustin’s and Chris’. It doesn’t belong to Sean, no, no, never, he will die before he acknowledges Sean’s part in everything).

Eduardo stands absolutely still, shivering and dejected, feeling anger radiate off his arms and cheeks and fuse with the cold rain water hitting his skin like little needles, biting. It’s all so familiar (like everything, like he’s stuck in some fucking time warp and he has no idea what he did to deserve this. Because no matter what his father told him, he is better than this, he can _have_ better than this, he can have what he wants) that he wants to throw up.

It takes all his willpower to get back into his car and drive _away_ (because if he stays here, he’ll end up confronting Mark and saying more hurtful words he doesn’t mean and he just cannot risk that. Not now). Besides, a thought has taken root in his mind and he needs to see it through now.

Because if his hunch (his malicious, illogical hope) is right, Sean fucking Parker is the mole (and maybe that means he can punch him in the face).

&&&

The team is alerted to his arrival at base but the squealing of his tires. He exits the car immediately and heads to the front door before pausing with his hand on the doorknob. He sighs and curses in Portuguese, running back to the car to grab his suitcase because he _knows_ Yolanda is going to want her present from his trip to San Francisco (and apparently anywhere that takes more than thirty minutes by car to get to requires him to bring souvenirs, according to Yolanda’s logic).

He runs back to the house and skids inside, depositing his suitcase by the door and shucking off his dripping jacket.

Yolanda skips to the foyer to meet him. “Hiya! Whadda bring me?”

Eduardo nods to the suitcase. “It’s in there. Where’s Dave?”

Yolanda claps her hands in delight and lunges for the luggage. “He’s in his room.”

Eduardo nods his thanks and walks briskly to the guest room, running on a manic sort of energy. Sabrina peers at him from her position on the couch, painting her toe nails. She raises an eyebrow. “You’re completely soaked.”

Eduardo glances down and notices water squishing out onto the carpet, trailing from his pants and shoes. He shrugs. “Yeah.”

Sabrina squints at him. “How was San Francisco?”

“Great. Informative. We think the director’s acting weird. And guess what? Sean Parker is in town.”

Sabrina blinks. “Yeah, he’s been in town for a few days now.”

Eduardo freezes and turns to stare at her, shock and righteous indignation clearly spelled across his face. “What?”

“He arrived a few days after you left.” She dips the brush into her nail polish bottle and pulls it out again, tapping the excess polish on the side of the bottle before brushing it carefully across her nails. “He hit on me.” She throws her head back and laughs. “Like, like he actually—” she laughs harder and has to hold the brush up and away from her feet—“like he actually had a chance with me.” She shakes her head. “Idiot.”

Eduardo stalks over to the couch and braces his hands on the back. “Sean Parker has been in town for _days_ and no one bothered to tell me?”

Sabrina raises an eyebrow and purses her lips. “We handled it. Hugo’s team put a tail on him and Dave’s been monitoring his computer activity at Facebook. There’s really nothing out of the ordinary.”

Eduardo shakes his head in disbelief. “Sean is the fucking mole, can’t you see that?”

She pauses before placing her nail polish brush back in the bottle and shifting to face him more directly. “No. You _want_ Sean to be the mole. We checked the records, he was in the Bahamas during a large chunk of the mole activity.”

Eduardo frowns, reluctant to let this epiphany go so easily. “He could be working with someone.”

“Yeah. And so could anyone else at Facebook. You’re being delusional. Again.”

“You don’t know how manipulative Sean is. He’s already got you all twisted up against me!”

“You don’t know how crazy you are!”

“What’s going on?” Yolanda asks, peering around the corner into the living room.

“Wardo is being a delusional fucking jealous teenage girl. _Again_ ,” Sabrina seethes, staring Eduardo dead in the eyes.

Eduardo scowls. “Mark is weak against Sean. Sean is a smarmy, manipulative bastard with high ambitions and no morals. He has access to fucking everything. He is a perfect fit.” He turns to Yolanda because she is more likely to believe him.

But Yolanda is shaking her head sadly. “You should have fucked Mark when you had the chance. Now you’re sexually frustrated and crazy.”

Eduardo gapes and points his finger at her. “I, _I’m_ crazy?”

Yolanda nods rapidly. “But don’t worry, we still love you.”

Eduardo groans into his hands. “Dave!” he calls out in desperation because he can’t be the only sane one left among the four of them.

Dave pokes his head out of his room, his eyes widening in terror that Eduardo doesn’t understand, until Dave cries out, “The carpet! You’re ruining the carpet! We need towels.” Dave rushes to the linen closet to leave Eduardo in his misery.

Eduardo sighs and slumps into the loveseat beside the sofa, ignoring Dave’s horrified moans that now they’ll have to replace the loveseat, they’ll never get their security deposit back, this is horrible, they are the worst tenants ever.

&&&

He spends the next few days following Sean closely (but not obsessively, because he’s completely sane. He is. Shut up). Somehow he manages not to just draw his gun and shoot the bastard (because he’s James fucking Bond, not Indiana fucking Jones. He chooses stealth and suaveness over pure power and awesomeness and only wonders briefly if it’s a fair deal). But the only footage he gets is Sean being a douche and picking up far too many women than his looks should allow for. It is highly disappointing.

By the sixth day, Eduardo has come to the sad conclusion that okay, maybe he was a little delusional (but who could blame him? Sean is like the worst type of human being ever. If he is in fact a human). So he decides it’s the last afternoon he will spend his valuable time following Sean around the Palo Alto area (and really? For all of Sean’s paranoia, he’s shit at figuring out when someone really _is_ tailing him. This gives Eduardo a strange and completely false sense of accomplishment).

He follows Sean to the Facebook offices in his pretentious SUV wearing his pretentious Armani jacket with those pretentious glasses (okay, maybe he really has a prescription, how should Eduardo know?). Sean parks in his reserved parking spot and alights from his vehicle, checking over his shoulder suddenly.

Eduardo ducks quickly behind a car, making sure to position himself by the tire so as to hide his feet if Sean has enough brains to look _under_ the cars. He doesn’t, instead heading into the office a little more quickly than Eduardo has observed over the past week. Eduardo hopes Sean thinks he’s being targeted by the mafia (or something, whatever Sean’s crazy little mind can make up) because Eduardo is a nice guy but he’s also kind of evil to those who have crossed him and he delights in the suffering of his enemies (probably another reason the CIA wanted him).

He waits a few beats, listening intently to Sean’s retreating footsteps, before he straightens, adjusting his suit back into place. He’s about to move outside and run surveillance outside the office when something makes him pause.

It’s nothing, really, but there’s something overwhelmingly familiar about the car he found himself crouching behind. It’s just an ordinary car, in an ordinary color, that an ordinary employee at Facebook would drive. And yet there’s something about it that is so comfortable and _accepted_ in his mind that his instincts are screaming at him to take a closer look. He’s learnt over the years that it’s what you accept without question that come back to bite you in the ass.

He squints and peers inside the vehicle, noting the air freshener – lemon scented, quite common (he hasn’t had a lemon-scented freshener in years, Dave doesn’t like the strong acidic smell of it), and the neat organization of the objects left in the back seat (his back seat is either completely wiped clean of anything due to Sabrina’s insistence of leaving absolutely nothing personal behind or full of junk he doesn’t know the origin of because Yolanda uses it as her own personal storage on wheels).

He makes a note of the license plate, make and model of the car, and the parking spot it’s in, before heading out to the café across the street from Facebook. He texts Dave and asks him to run a check on the license of the owner and to cross reference it to the employees’ financial information they’ve gathered. Just to be on the safe side.

He orders an overpriced frappe and sits near the window while he waits. He doesn’t have to wait long before his phone is chiming, but he is surprised to see it’s a voice call from Dave, not just an answering text.

“What’s up?” he answers, thumb playing with the end of his straw.

“Okay, so I ran the license plate and the car is registered to an Anthony Barr, thirty years old, divorced father of two.”

Eduardo makes some notes on a spare napkin, nodding into his phone. “Alright. Anything unusual in his accounts?”

“No, nothing out of the ordinary. But, uh. See, he’s not on the financial records.”

Eduardo frowns, pausing in his notes and twirling his pen between his fingers. “We missed someone?”

“No, he isn’t on the payroll.”

Eduardo’s eyebrows rise considerably. “He’s in Facebook-employee-only assigned parking.”

 

“Maybe he parked there by mistake?”

Eduardo’s mouth thins and his dark eyes spark with intensity. “I’ll call you back Dave.” He shoves his phone into his suit pocket quickly, abandoning his drink and jogging quickly over to Facebook. He’s not entirely sure if he’s been blacklisted by security but he doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to himself, so he slips around the building to a side entrance.

He easily picks the lock and slides into a rarely used staircase. He takes the steps two-at-a-time until he reaches his desired floor. He pauses for a moment to calm his breathing and fix his hair (it’s for the assignment, really, he’s not vain), before exiting the staircase and walking briskly to the human resources department, careful to avoid anyone who would raise concern at his presence (like Mark or Dustin or Sean Parker). He slips around desks and carefully avoids the office of the head of human resources (because she’s kind of evil and hates him). Instead he finds her assistant, a kind woman called Linda whose eyes never really reached his eyes when he talked to her, but remained slightly unfocused on his lips.

She is, thankfully, not at her desk (in plain sight of her boss), but in the copy room a few paces away. She’s frowning down at the copier, scolding it for some infraction he wasn’t privy to. He sidles next to her smoothly, reaching a hand up to lay two fingers on her arm.

“Hey Linda,” he drawls, a grin wide on his lips.

She jumps and stares with wide eyes for a moment before a nervous laugh escapes her throat. “Mr. Saverin!”

“Please, I told you to call me Eduardo.”

“Eduardo, right.” She smiles and bows her head shyly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I, uh, I thought your business here had concluded.”

Eduardo makes no outward sign of surprise, but he’s pleased to know Mark and Chris downplayed his sudden absence from the office (but he should have been worried to begin with, he’s the one that likes to cause a scene). He tilts his head and says, “Oh, not quite. Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Anything,” she breathes and Eduardo has a second of guilt for using her crush on him to his own advantage (but then he remembers his job and what’s at stake and it’s not as if he’s leading her on or anything).

“My computer crashed, and I have some really important information saved on the private office server. Do you think I could borrow your computer, just for a second?”

Linda hesitates and shifts her eyes uncomfortably. “Um. I, I would like to help you. But with the security breaches, we’re not allowed to loan our computers to anyone.”

“Please? Just for a second?” He widens his eyes to look more endearing.

She bites her lip and looks like she’s debating fiercely in her mind before she sighs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. My boss would kill me, you know her.”

Eduardo swallows his disappointment and nods cheerily. “Ah, it’s okay,” he says, waving a hand in dismissal before switching tactics. He moves to leave the room, pausing at the door like something just occurred to him. “Oh, by the way. I saw an accident in the parking garage just a little while ago. Some jerk hit a car and just drove off.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s horrible!”

“Isn’t it, though? I took down all the information I could, but I’d like to give it to the victim in person. You know, if they have any questions for me. They were in spot number one-hundred and twelve.”

Linda’s eyes light up. “That I can help you with! Follow me.” She ushers Eduardo out of the copy room and leads him to her desk. Eduardo positions himself in a blind spot where the department head cannot see him and waits as Linda runs through a couple screens on her computer. Finally she makes a distressed noise. “Oh no!”

Eduardo peers over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“It’s Tony’s car. Oh, poor Tony.”

“Tony?” Eduardo prompts.

“He’s in this department. Sweet guy. Sort of distant. I’ll show you to him.” She stands and leads Eduardo through the department, talking happily about how helpful Tony had been when she was having computer issues. He spent his entire lunch break fixing it, insisting that she go out and enjoy her lunch. Eduardo feels an electric energy surging through his veins, closing in on his prey. He suddenly feels the very real weight of the knife strapped to his calf and the pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

“Oh, he must have stepped out for a moment,” Linda notes when they reach an empty desk.

Eduardo frowns but nods, advancing to the desk to analyze its contents. It is filled with random bits of postcards and knick-knacks that gave the illusion of a personality but were completely void of feeling. There is no theme, no special placement, it is all cold and affected. He’s running his fingers gingerly over a few loose papers when Linda makes a happy noise.

“Oh! There he is. Tony!” She waves to him happily.

Eduardo turns around, following Linda’s gaze, and freezes instantaneously, his eyes widened comically.

Before him, in a pair of dark jeans and a comfortable t-shirt, blonde hair slightly more shaggy than he last saw it, was an all-too familiar pair of harsh green eyes and a condescending tilt of lips.

Of course it had to be a fucking Sith Lord he’s been chasing for weeks. Of course.

&&&

Eduardo watches Luke’s eyes widen in recognition and there’s a moment where they just stare at each other, evaluating the situation (Luke with probably a lot less emotion and more evil dark side thoughts than Eduardo).

“Tony, Eduardo here saw—” Linda begins somewhere in the background but Luke is already taking off down the hall with an incredible burst of speed.

Eduardo has a one tiny moment to decide what to do. He can either chase after Luke and draw way too much attention to himself, running the risk of blowing his cover with no guarantee of capturing Luke. Or he can let Luke go, try to track him down later, and maintain cover. The safe choice is the latter. He knows what they’ve trained him for. He should choose the latter.

“Fuck it.” Eduardo starts off after him, whizzing past desks, papers flying behind him in his wake. “Luke!”

Luke is still paces away and ducking around corners in an attempt to lose Eduardo.

“Stay fucking still you Jedi bastard!” Eduardo yells at him.

This finally gets a reaction from Luke who whips his head around, still racing around the office (and now people are plastering themselves to the walls with looks on their faces that range from _what the fuck?_ to _WHAT THE FUCK???????_ ). “Stop with the fucking Jedi jokes, okay? They were never funny.”

“They were always funny,” Eduardo rebuffs, personally offended.

Luke spots the stairs and smirks, leaping over the railing and taking three at a time up to the next level. Eduardo curses and rushes to follow him. He grabs his phone from his pocket and hits the emergency panic button. He desperately needs Sabrina to back him up because he might be agile, but Luke has always been able to out-run him (with his stupid athletic body, he was like the fucking Winklevii twins. Put together. Into one person. Genetics sucked).

He watches from several feet below as Luke enters the top floor. Which is good because that’s where Sabrina probably is and she’ll subdue him in no time if they cross paths. But it’s also really fucking _bad_ because that’s where Mark is and oh shit, oh no, if Luke so much as _thinks_ about hurting one single curling hair on Mark’s beautiful head, he will draw and quarter the sith himself.

He bounds up the remaining steps as quickly as he can, bursting through the door and into the programming department. He stops and scans the open layout quickly, barely aware of the heaving breaths he is exhaling and inhaling. He can’t find Luke, shit, _shit_. His body remains perfectly still but there’s an energy circulating inside of him, replacing his blood with a power he only feels when he’s on a chase. He takes in every detail, every minute difference in the area that he can, with his eyes and his ears and sense of smell.

He spots Sabrina across the room, walking briskly with a false sense of calm, her stilettos clicking on the floor a little faster than normal. She catches his eye, brows raised in question.

He starts toward her when her eyes widen and she yells out quickly, “Wardo, down!”

He barely manages to react in time before a ninja star whizzes past his head. He straightens and spins around, catches sight of a blond tuff of traitorous hair. “A fucking ninja star, Luke? Are you fucking kidding me?” He bursts forward again, tracking Luke around a sharp corner.

“What the fuck, Luke? It’s _Luke_?” Sabrina yells from behind him, heels in a fast click-click-click, gaining on him.

“Right?”

They weave between unsuspecting employees and people are freaking out and someone’s crying. They’ve probably called security by now. Great.

He needs to maintain as much of a cover as he can, he needs to get these people _out_ of here, he needs to kill Luke, he needs to find Mark and make sure he’s safe. There are too many thoughts and worries swirling around in his mind, so he closes his eyes momentarily, feet still pounding the floor one after another, and lets instinct take over (because planning and thinking and analyzing is good and safe and completely useless when something this important is on the line. It’s terrifying and freeing at the same time to just do exactly what comes to his mind first). He opens his eyes and reaches a hand out to a passing fire alarm. He tugs it down, lips lifting in satisfaction at the instant shrill of the siren.

“What the fuck, Saverin?” Sabrina yells at him, having finally caught up with him. She shoves him harshly in anger. “We’re going to lose him in the panic.”

“We need to get these people out of here. Head over to the west exit, I’m going to search the floor. Where’s Yolanda?”

Sabrina smiles slightly, an upturn of the corners of her lips. “It’s nice to have the competent Eduardo back.”

“Shut your mouth. Yolanda. Location. Now.”

“She called when you sent the alert. She should be in the building.”

“Good. Go.” Eduardo shoos her off, watching her take a sharp left to head to the west exit. He takes his phone again and calls Yolanda, weaving through the semi-panicking crowd of people trying to get down the stairs and out of the building. She picks up on the first ring.

“What’s happening, my liege?” she answers, breath slightly shallow like she’s running. He can hear the sirens throb in echo on her end of the line.

“You’re in the building?”

“Second floor, north side, about to be trampled to death, no big deal. Where are you?”

“Third floor. I need you to evacuate everyone, make sure the building is empty as soon as possible.”

Yolanda hums in acknowledge. “Aye aye, capt’n.”

“You’re mixing up your references.”

“I am an English pirate from the feudal times, how is that confusing?”

Eduardo dodges a man barreling around the corner, his laptop clutched against his chest and eyes wide with severe panic. “Forget I mentioned it. Oh, and Yolanda?”

“Hmm?”

“Be careful. It’s Luke.”

There’s a pause on her end before she asks, “Luke who?”

He actually pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it incredulously for a moment before repositioning it against his head again. Now is not the time to be concerned (seriously fucking concerned) about how Yolanda’s mind works. Just. What. “Luke, our former team leader. The Sith Lord Luke?”

“Him?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Huh. That’s a new one.”

Eduardo sighs and nods even if Yolanda can’t see it. “He’s on this floor, I’m tracking him down.”

“If he takes out a light saber, you need to take video.”

“Go evacuate people!”

“I’M SERIOUS, WARDO—”

He cuts her off and ends the call, replacing his cell phone back into his pocket. The floor is thinning of people, most employees crowding each other at the staircases. He takes the opportunity to check under desks and behind fixtures. Then he remembers he’s dealing with Luke, who has the same training as he does and he swears under his breath. This isn’t going to be easy.

He slows to a jog, looking up at the ceiling as he runs, then back down (and he probably looks really fucking stupid but he can’t take any chances). He runs a hand down the small of his back to make sure he has his gun secured there, breathing out a relieved sigh when he finds it tucked exactly where he remembered putting it in the morning (when he had been envisioning shooting Sean with it. It seems that dream is destined to never come true).

He notices a slight muted shuffle to his right over the piercing siren, ears trained to block out the obvious and magnify the concealed. He jumps over desks and chairs, feet stomping over wood and papers and scattered knick-knacks (and if he feels a slight moment of guilt for stepping on someone’s beanie baby, he’ll deal with that later).

He is just about to hop down from someone’s desk, one foot dangling in mid-air and arms flared out to keep his balance, when he looks down and staring owlishly up at him is Mark, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a stern line. He can hear Dustin somewhere around the corner yelling about how they’re all going to die in a huge inferno because Mark couldn’t be bothered to stop coding to _leave_ a _burning building_ right away. Chris responds with something Eduardo can’t hear but he doesn’t have much time to figure it out because he can clearly make out Sean’s voice. His expression darkens before it falls back on Mark.

He smiles stiffly. “Hey. Mark.”

Mark is still glaring at him, unflinching and more terrifying than any bullet or knife could ever be.

“Whoa, whoa, Wardo, what’re you doing?” Dustin demands as the group rounds the corner and takes in the scene in front of them.

Sean blinks at Eduardo on the desk for a moment before cocking his head and saying, “What’s he doing here?”

Eduardo scowls at Sean and jumps down from the desk. He looks quickly to Chris who mouths _what is happening?_ to him, clearly concerned. Eduardo nods in acknowledgement. “You should get out of here,” he tells them before advancing forward, hoping he hasn’t lost Luke in the delay.

“No.”

Eduardo stops, fists clenching at his sides while Mark’s two-letter utterance echoes through the near-empty space. He peers over his shoulder, eyes pleading. “Mark, you need to leave.”

Mark crosses his arms and cocks his head in defiance, mouth twisting with scorn. “This is my building.”

“Mark.”

“No.”

“Maybe we should listen to Wardo,” Chris pips in, anxious eyes on Wardo. “There’s a fire—”

“There’s no fire,” Mark answers pointedly, nodding to Eduardo. “Right?”

“Can someone let me in on all this tension here?” Sean asks, gesturing with his hands between everyone.

Dustin is all-too happy to fill in the details, immediately rushing out, “Basically Wardo came back and Mark was super jealous of all the attention everyone was paying him, and then they made out and got together and then they _broke my heart_ and divorced again and now there’s a fire and Mark wants us all to _die_ a very horrible death because he won’t leave and Wardo has taken up tap dancing on tables? Maybe? I don’t know, the last part is still a bit unclear.”

“Okay, everyone needs to leave right the fuck now,” Eduardo spits out, frustration and fear leaking out through his voice.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Mark answers, unmoving, blue eyes sharp and hopeful (and how they can still be hopeful, after all the lies, after all the times Eduardo has rejected him in the harshest and strongest of ways, Eduardo does not understand. It shocks him, twists his stomach in guilt and regret and something akin to jealousy, because Mark can do what Eduardo has always wanted. He can come back over and over, make himself open and vulnerable to Eduardo because Mark is invincible. Eduardo wishes he could be as strong as Mark has always been).

Eduardo opens his mouth to lie, to rattle off some unbelievable excuse and find Luke, to leave Palo Alto and Facebook and his old friends and _Mark_ forever. But there’s something in the way Mark is watching him, like he’s the only person in the room, like his answer is the only one that matters (like _Eduardo_ matters to him, to this genius, this man who changed the world. Eduardo is important to _him_ ). It feels heavy and intoxicating in his body, his lungs shuttering under the radiant pressure of it, like he can steal a bit of Mark’s magic for his own (like Mark bestows his magic on Eduardo, like Eduardo is worthy of it). He takes two steps forward towards Mark before pausing, unsure of if he can advance further. He reaches his hands out and retracts them almost immediately, warring with himself.

“Wardo,” Mark repeats, leaning forward, eyes shifting quickly over Eduardo’s face now, anticipatory and so achingly tentative.

“Oh fuck, screw it,” Eduardo mutters before answering, “I’m in the CIA. I’m a spy. In the CIA.” Mark recoils, expression darkening in disbelief. “Yeah, you don’t believe me, it sounds ridiculous. It _is_ fucking ridiculous. I hardly believe me.” He points to Chris. “Ask Chris.”

Everyone turns to look at Chris immediately. Chris looks concerned, eyes wide and questioning. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Wardo?”

Eduardo nods, eyes locked on Mark’s profile, willing Mark’s eyes back to his, willing Mark to believe him. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Dustin shrieks, mouth completely agape and looking back and forth between Eduardo and Chris. “CIA? Chris, you knew? Wardo? What? I. I need to sit down.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sean supplies unhelpfully (and very smugly. Always so smug. And that is totally not a biased observation on Eduardo’s part. No. Even the way Sean _breathes_ is smarmy). “Dustin, call security. Dustin.”

Dustin is shaking his head numbly. “Why does no one tell me _anything_? I don’t want to be friends with any of you. You all suck. I’m putting an ad on craigslist tonight.” A pause. “Are you really in the CIA? You fucking serious?”

Eduardo is still pleading silently for Mark to at least _look_ at him. “Mark,” he whispers.

“Saverin!”

Eduardo jolts at the very vocal arrival of a very pissed off Sabrina. He peers over his shoulder and winces, belatedly registering that his phone has been vibrating almost non-stop for the past few minutes in his pocket. Her expression is on par with Mark’s and he idly wonders if he is being punished for something he did in another life (which is totally unfair because he has no control over that and hasn’t he suffered enough already?).

“Your phone is to fucking answer, not—” She stops short when she is able to see Mark (and Dustin and Chris and Sean, but it’s probably Mark she’s worried about if that flash in her eye means anything). She slows down to a controlled walk and plasters a smile on her lips, a bit too stiff to be credible. “I was trying to contact you,” she finishes, her voice disgustingly sweet and unnatural and completely unconvincing to anyone within earshot. She seems to notice it and tries again, pitching her voice slightly higher than normal. “We, uh. We should have lunch sometime.”

The group continues to stare at her and Eduardo wonders if he should fill her in on the last couple minutes. He decides no, no this is too much fun. And she’s going to beat him up later anyway, so he might as well earn it.

“I mean, uh, what are you doing here? When the building is on fire,” she amends lamely, adjusting her clothes and avoiding direct eye contact with Mark. Eduardo suddenly feels very smug about his own failings as a spy (because Mark is like a human lie detector and now it’s not just Eduardo under his scrutiny).

“Shit, she’s part of the CIA too, isn’t she?” Dustin breathes, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Fuck, she was a brilliant programmer.”

Sabrina whips her head to Eduardo and glowers in righteous indignation at him. “You fucking told them?”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maybe?”

She launches at him, attacking any part of his body she can bring into contact with her fists and feet and occasionally her head. “You fucking incompetent pansy, the first thing we learn is to never tell anyone and you fucking tell everyone? What the fuck is wrong with you? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Eduardo does his best to block against Sabrina’s attacks, dodging and ducking until he can wrap his hands around her wrists. “Would – fuck, would you stop already?”

“Why didn’t you call the local radio station and announce it to the entire fucking town, huh, Saverin?”

“He deserved to know!” Eduardo blurts out, entirely ignoring everyone watching with intent stares and focusing on avoiding Sabrina’s nails.

Sabrina’s eyes narrow dangerously. “It was Zuckerberg? Again? Are you fucking serious?” She glares at Mark who jolts slightly before narrowing his eyes at her to match glares. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You have single-handedly destroyed a prime agent to a flailing piece of fail.” She turns her eyes back to Eduardo. “ _Fail_.”

Before anyone can respond, Yolanda trots around the corner, short, quick steps that sound entirely too happy for the current situation (and how Yolanda’s footsteps can have any sort of emotion is beyond Eduardo to explain, but they do, and happy is what they are).

“Oh, oh!” she pips and Eduardo notes in bemusement that she has somehow procured a fire marshal uniform (like the time they were undercover at a circus in Hungary and she had somehow in the space of thirty seconds changed into a lion tamer outfit. Sometimes he thinks she’s a magical fairy or something). “People! Who should not be in a burning building!” She trots past Sabrina and Eduardo like their battle is an every day occurrence (it is) and grabs randomly at Dustin and Chris, nodding her head at the others. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

“He fucking told them, Yolanda.” Sabrina extracts herself from Eduardo’s grasp (because it never held much of a threat for her and even in her anger she was humoring him) and grabs Yolanda’s shoulders. “Eduardo told them and now we have to kill them all and hide the bodies. Did you bring any lye?”

Yolanda tilts her head in consideration. “No, but I know where I can get some. How many bodies?”

“We’re not killing anyone,” Eduardo sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ward off the impending headache building behind his eyes. If only everyone would shut up for a second and someone would turn off that damn siren that keeps throbbing throbbing throbbing, why is that siren still going? “Oh shit.” Eduardo snaps his eyes open again. He swears proficiently in Portuguese. “Luke, fuck, we need to find Luke.”

Sabrina’s eyes widen and snap to Eduardo. “Oh shit. We are the worst agents in the history of ever.”

“Luke who?” Yolanda inquires again.

“Luke the fucking Sith Lord Luke, what the hell is wrong with everyone?” Eduardo explodes, hands flailing slightly. He takes a moment to look at Mark (confused and eyes racing over everyone like he’s tracing code over their forms in order to make _sense_ of what’s going on, and maybe slightly amused and just the tiniest bit hopeful, but that could be Eduardo projecting. It wouldn’t be the first time). “I’ll explain all of this later, I swear I will,” he tells Mark (pleads with Mark) before turning to Yolanda. “Landa, get them _out_ of here. Sabrina, he was headed to the back staircase a couple minutes ago.”

Eduardo and Sabrina take off running, Eduardo dialing Dave quickly and praying they haven’t lost Luke for good. He hears Yolanda coaxing Mark down the stairs with her and ignoring Dustin’s thousand and one questions.

“He’s probably halfway to Mexico by now,” Sabrina grumbles, heels clicking at an alarming pace.

“He only had a couple minutes head start.”

“Fuck you, Saverin. None of this would have happened if you had done your damn job.”

Eduardo huffs in annoyance because this is not his fault (not entirely. He cannot be to blame for everything, okay?). “Why don’t you just shut up?” he suggests to her the moment Dave answers the phone.

“Wh-what?” Dave stutters, suddenly terrified that Eduardo has been replaced by a Sabrina clone. Again.

“I was talking to Sabrina, who’s acting like an _ogre_ again,” Eduardo pointedly enunciates more to Sabrina than to Dave, placing his phone on speakerphone.

“Yes, because Wardo lost Luke because he is a _fourteen-year-old girl with too many feelings_ ,” Sabrina yells in Eduardo’s general direction. 

“Do I need to be on the line for this?” Dave pleads.

“Yes,” they both answer decisively. Eduardo thinks he hears Dave whimper but he can’t be sure.

“Has there been any activity in the last ten minutes? Safes opening, doors, anything?” Sabrina prompts, finally remembering her professionalism and the task at hand.

Dave does a quick search and rattles off a handful of locations that require codes to open that have been activated in the timeframe Sabrina supplies. Sabrina immediately takes off for the first floor activity, texting Yolanda the basement locations to investigate once she is finished escorting “Wardo’s stupid boyfriend and his stupid friends with their stupid faces and their stupid questions” outside. Eduardo ignores Sabrina’s not even mildly veiled insults and starts to head to the second floor when he notices the service staircase door is slightly ajar. It’s only by an inch but he pauses in front of it, biting his pinky nail in consideration.

It’s highly unlikely that Luke would have gone up when he had the opportunity to go back down, the door was probably left open by someone escaping during the fire alarm, and his team is counting on him to go to the second floor, where they’re expecting him to be. But Eduardo is curious and doesn’t mind risking his own skin, especially if it will only take a couple minutes to clear the area and get back to the task at hand with a mind at ease. Besides, he’s pretty sure Dave has planted several GPS trackers in his clothes and his rings (and Sabrina’s clothes and Yolanda’s, but Yolanda seems to have noticed and is in a silent internal war with him, pointedly burning specific items of clothing and jewelry and once a bra, making sure Dave can see exactly what she’s doing. Sabrina thought they were staging a feminist revolt. That had been an interesting two weeks).

Eduardo pushes through the door and finds himself in a solid cement staircase, metal steps painted a light grey leading up to the roof. He takes them two at a time, wincing slightly at the dull _thunk thunk_ his steps make on the hollow structure, bouncing off the walls in a seemingly endless echo. He takes a moment to adjust his suit sleeves when he reaches the top of the stairs before placing his hand on the cool metal knob. He half expects the door to the roof to be locked but it slips open, the knob turning in pliant obedience under his hand.

He has to squint his eyes at the sudden rush of sunlight but his other senses alert him to another presence on the roof. He has enough foresight to duck before another ninja star cuts at the fabric of his suit by his shoulder. “What the fuck is with you and the fucking ninja stars?” he demands, eyes open and glaring at Luke.

Luke sneers and balances a cell phone between his shoulder and ear, using his hands to dig out another damned star. “I bought in bulk, okay? Haven’t you ever had an impulse buy?” Luke rolls his eyes before Eduardo can respond. “No, I’m not fucking talking to you, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles into his phone.

Eduardo grabs his pistol from behind his back, releasing the safety and pointing it directly at Luke’s head. “This can be easy. Just put down your weapons and come with me peacefully.”

Luke lets out a mirthless laugh. “Really, Eduardo? _Really_? Has that ‘come with me peacefully’ crap ever worked?”

Eduardo shrugs. “It was worth a shot. There’s no way you can get out of this.”

“What, you’re going to shoot me?” Luke asks incredulously, like he knows what Eduardo is capable and incapable of. Like he has evaluated Eduardo (evaluated him and found him lacking because Eduardo could never measure up).

“If need be,” Eduardo grits between clenched teeth, eyes narrowing. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and quell the burst of panic and inferiority that has crept up to his chest.

Luke scoffs and directs his attention briefly to his phone. He speaks quickly in another language (Eduardo suspects Russian but it could very well be another of the Slavic languages. Dave is their Slavic interpreter) before tucking it decisively into his back jean pocket. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were making empty threats and I was leaving.”

Eduardo shifts his hand slightly askew and pulls the trigger, watching in satisfaction as Luke jerks and widens his eyes when the bullet barely misses him. “Oops,” he shrugs smugly.

Luke’s eyes narrow in determination and suddenly he has closed the distance between him and Eduardo, wrenching the gun in Eduardo’s hand to the ground (Eduardo lets it slip easily. Some part of him doesn’t want to kill Luke, who used to be his teammate, who despite being an asshole still taught him what he needed to know to survive. Besides, he prefers the very real and very satisfactory feeling of a fist to the stomach or face region. Much more fitting for an asshole).

They wrestle with each other, throwing punches and reeling to avoid blows. Eduardo tries to recall Luke’s fighting style, to predict hits and anticipate his moves, but Luke had never been keen to spar with him or any other member of their team.

“You really are an asshole,” Eduardo breathes, wrapping a hand around Luke’s wrist and twisting.

“Me? I was the asshole?” Luke exhales sharply, dragging Eduardo around and attempting to elbow him in the stomach. “You’re the one who kept making those ridiculous _Star Wars_ jokes.”

“Your name is Luke Walker. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

“That’s why you’re an asshole.”

“I am _never_ the asshole. Everyone else is the asshole.”

Luke sneers and succeeds in hitting Eduardo, sending a fist harshly into his jaw. Eduardo staggers back quickly, slightly dazed and tasting the iron tang of blood in his mouth. He swears and holds his cheek, willing the intense throbbing to go away. Luke starts to run to the side of the roof and takes a leap onto the roof of the adjacent building.

“Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me,” Eduardo grumbles under his breath before following Luke, landing on the roof with a drop-roll and tearing at the finely woven fabric of his suit. “They’re never going to be able to fix this suit. It’s finished, that’s it,” he laments aloud to himself, barely resisting a flail with his whining.

Eduardo follows Luke through the building until the third floor, breezing past shocked employees and several people wondering out loud if they’re filming a movie or something. Two people actually try to stop him for an autograph. The delay is just enough time for Luke to slip onto the fire escape and jump onto a passing truck on the street. Eduardo jumps down as well but misses the truck and is left standing in the middle of the road, trying to catch his breath and cursing fluently.

His face is throbbing, his lungs are about to collapse, his favorite suit is ruined, Mark is pissed at him, Sabrina is pissed at him, Yolanda and Dustin are probably plotting a world revolution or the resurrection of the Furby phenomenon (which is basically the same thing anyway), and he just lost the man responsible for nearly destroying Facebook. He wishes he was dying, it would make things a whole lot more pleasant.

&&&

The throbbing in his cheek has spread to that space between his skull and the skin covering his forehead. That space right there, like there’s a ball bouncing back and forth and back and forth. He’s lost control of his eyebrows, they will now and forever be in a permanent furrow because at least then that ball is restricted in movement. Not that his cheek has stopped throbbing, though. But at least Yolanda was kind enough to bring him ice for the swelling and pain.

Not anything to actually, you know, _hold_ the ice in, though. She brought it to him with bare hands and a giant grin on her face, patting his back soothingly with her wet hands. He managed a small smile because that’s the polite thing to do, before ripping a chunk of fabric from his button down shirt to form a makeshift ice pack. His suit is ruined anyway, might as well look completely wrecked.

Which is how, he supposes, this horrible day ends up like this: in one of the rare boardrooms with actual walls on the top floor of Facebook, locked in the small confines with his team, Chris, Dustin, a terrifyingly silent Mark, and _Sean_ (a Sean Eduardo cannot legitimately kill or even hit, mores the pity) all scattered around the large table. Yolanda and Dustin are twirling in their chairs in what Eduardo can only suppose is a how-many-times-can-you-spin-around-with-one-push competition. Dave has arrived and is nervously glancing around the room, then back to his laptop, then back around the room like he’s expecting someone’s freaking head to explode and he’ll have to clean up the mess. Chris is rubbing slow circles into his temples with two fingers, contemplating out loud how long it would take to sell his house and move far, far away from California. Sabrina is making frantic notes on her iPad and presumably contacting the Twitter team with their new information, leaning over to whisper to Eduardo every minute or so about how fucking _stupid_ he is and also never to go after a target alone again and he’s fucking _lucky_ he only got a fist through the face (which is ridiculous because his clothes have been massacred too, and that’s a big deal but Sabrina doesn’t seem as torn up about it as he is but he will never get over this suit, okay?). Mark stares blankly at Eduardo, eyes flicking over his team every so often before settling back to him, expression closed off (but there’s a hint of exasperation and annoyance in the way his mouth pinches just the slightest bit. Eduardo supposes he should be happy he can detect that much about Mark’s mood, but it really does not help him with the situation at _all_ so no, Eduardo is not thankful. He’s fucking unthankful and pissed and tired and really wishes this was not his life).

And of course there’s Sean. Sean who’s ranting and pacing up and down the boardroom on Mark’s side of the table. It appears as though Sean has forgone the idea that Eduardo is putting on some sort of elaborate show to fuck with them, and now firmly believes Eduardo is, in fact, an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. Which is so much worse because now he won’t stop ranting about government conspiracies and he _knew_ Eduardo sent that girl to that party last weekend to set him up (because Eduardo is responsible for everything that goes wrong in Sean’s life apparently. Eduardo conveniently forgets he has blamed Sean for every evil that has happened at Facebook. Because Sean probably is responsible for it. That’s just logical, okay?).

Sean is on his seventh straight minute of interconnected conspiracies (and somehow linked Eduardo to the JFK shooting) and Eduardo’s head is just about ready to explode (and maybe Dave wasn’t too far off in his fears because really, if anyone in this room is going to clean up Eduardo’s brain matter off the walls, it’s going to be Dave) when Yolanda stops spinning in her chair and tilts her head at Sean like it’s the first time she’s seen him. She squints her eyes and purses her lips before pointing at Sean and turning to Eduardo.

“Who’s that?”

Eduardo lifts an eyebrow but isn’t really surprised. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “That’s Sean Parker.”

Yolanda gapes and turns back to look at Sean. “Nooooo. Really?” She turns to Dustin on her left. “Is he really?”

Dustin nods, still spinning from side to side in his chair. “That’s Seany boy.”

Sean stops his pacing and focuses in on Yolanda, eyes flicking her up and down in a way that makes Eduardo want to throw up because no, Sean did _not_ just check Yolanda out, ew. Ew ew ew ew.

_Ew_.

Yolanda leaps up from her chair and stalks straight to Sean, an awed look in her eyes. “ _The_ Sean Parker?” she clarifies unnecessarily, and Eduardo feels betrayed at the way her face lights up (maybe Sean has a magic smell that makes every one of Eduardo’s friends like him instantly or something).

Sean smirks, cocky and self-assured, extending his arm to grab Yolanda’s hand and holding it between both of his own. “The one and only,” he crones, thumb stroking Yolanda’s hand.

“Ew, what are you doing?” Sabrina blurts out, voicing Eduardo’s thoughts. Dave and Dustin look mildly perturbed as well.

Yolanda ignores them, eyes never leaving Sean’s face, her face practically glowing. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long.”

Sean shrugs in fake (extremely fake) modesty. “Here I am. _The_ Sean Parker.”

Yolanda nods before removing her hand from Sean’s grip and slamming her fist straight into his face, watching in glee as he stumbles to the floor in agony with one blow. “Wardo’s suits are _not_ ridiculous.” She barks out a delighted laugh and turns to grin at the team, pointing down at Sean. “Look what I did!”

Sabrina gapes at her before her face breaks into a matching grin and she gets up to envelope Yolanda in a rare hug. “That’s my girl!”

Dave bites his lip to keep a straight face before ducking his head back down to his laptop. Eduardo can’t believe what just happened. He collapses his upper body onto the table, head hitting the cold surface with a loud _thump_ and shoulders shaking with the force of hysterical laughter. He can vaguely hear Sean indignant and complaining that he’s bleeding, look, he’s going to sue them, this is police brutality, _he is not crazy, okay?_

Mark seems impassive to Sean’s distress, blankly informing him that he should clean himself up in the bathroom and if he breathes a _word_ of what has happened in the last hour, he will find himself dismembered tomorrow morning. Or something to that effect, Eduardo is having some difficulty making out the words over the wave of hysteria still shaking off his shoulders. This isn’t real life. This cannot in any way, shape, or form be real life (but it does resemble a telenovela his mother and sister used to watch obsessively. He didn’t watch it, of course. He just always happened to be in the room when it was on. And if the newest episodes somehow ended up on his laptop, well he’s sure that was a prank by Dave. Because Dave is a prankster. Yup. All the time).

Sean leaves, muttering about how the CIA is trying to get into his head or something like that and the room is blessedly quiet for exactly ten seconds before everyone explodes at the same time. Eduardo can’t make out any specifics but Chris is bemoaning the PR disaster this has become (because at the very least now he’ll have to explain why the entire freaking building was evacuated), and Dustin is bouncing between hyper-curious awe and self-righteous offense that Eduardo has _stolen_ the title of Paid Assassin from him. Sabrina is trying to teach Yolanda her favorite punch-kick-decapitate move but Yolanda has moved onto more entertaining, shinier things (like who the hell Dustin is and does he know Doug? To which Dustin stares with a confused expression for a beat before demanding an explanation of how she knows Doug from his third grade class). Dave has started to resemble a chicken, poking his head up to observe the group in wide-eyed curiosity (and a slight bit of horror) before ducking back down to find solace at his computer screen.

Eduardo, head resting in his arms on the table, flicks his eyes up to land on Mark directly across from him. Mark is picking his nails, mouth in a tight line and eyes boring blazing holes into Eduardo’s own, defiance and anger and relief all cumulating together into an emotion Eduardo can only describe as betrayed optimism (which is fucking ridiculous because that’s a paradox, but they’ve always been the best and worst kind of paradox so maybe it does make some sense). The intensity of his stare reminds Eduardo of the serious task at hand. He straightens until his back is flush against the back of his chair and he says quickly and with a great deal of authority, “Everyone quiet.”

The room stills immediately and Sabrina lifts her chin and defiantly sits down beside Eduardo, like it was her idea in the first place. Yolanda frowns but sits down next to Dustin, both of them mouthing to each other something Eduardo interrupts as “Wardo’s so bitchy when he isn’t getting laid,” but he refuses to allow that into his reality so he ignores it. Dave dips the edge of his laptop down and locks onto Eduardo with rapt attention. But all Eduardo can see is Mark.

He clears his throat before starting, “I believe I owe everyone here an explanation.” He takes a deep breath. “And an apology,” he says to Mark, praying his sincerity is visible in his eyes and his voice but Mark remains impassive and unreadable.

“Can we start with how the hell you got into the CIA and when and have you ever shot anyone?” Dustin asks eagerly.

“It was a dark and stormy night in Baton Rouge,” Yolanda starts, hands flaring in dramatic story-telling fashion. “‘I can give you everything your heart desires,’ the woman said to him, whispering and yet not moving her mouth, like the words existed by sheer will power. ‘All I require is your soul—’”

“Shut up, Yolanda,” Sabrina sneers, eyes narrowed and incredibly annoyed.

“You shut up! I am telling a _story_ , okay?”

“I will kick your ass.”

“Come at me, bro,” Yolanda answers, standing with her arms spread.

Eduardo grabs Sabrina’s arm and forces her back into her chair. “We have bigger issues to deal with,” he reminds her before turning his gaze to flick over Dustin, Chris, and settle on Mark. “You’ve been having security leaks over the past few months.” Dustin nods. “It’s not some hacker with too much time on his hands. I’m afraid it’s a lot more serious than that.”

Eduardo explains the situation to them, answering their questions when they interrupt and trying futilely not to read anything into Mark’s tone on the rare occasions he voices something (Mark gets progressively more angry, that terrifying, hair-raising kind of angry Eduardo has never felt the full force of, even during the depositions). Eduardo clenches his fists and presses forward with his briefing because he knows he lost Mark (or maybe he never had Mark, and maybe they were never meant to be because it shouldn’t be this _hard_ , should it?) but this is important and whether Mark hates him or not, they need to work together to save Facebook now (Facebook, the only entity left that bears witness to what Mark and Eduardo had, what they were to each other, what they could have been in some other time, some different reality).

“What do we do now?” Chris asks after Eduardo is done.

“We cleanse the system. Yes, Luke is still at large and we don’t know who he was working for, but at least now we can stop the leaks and protect the site,” Eduardo answers before looking over at Sabrina. “Sabrina is our most experienced analyst. She knows better than me what needs to happen to the site.”

Sabrina takes over immediately. “We need to go through all the code, every single fucking server, every computer needs to be checked with a fine-tooth comb. You can probably get your lower-level employees to check the computers for spyware and hidden traps. I assume they can do that much,” she adds condescendingly.

“We only hire the best,” Dustin retorts proudly, slightly offended.

“Right,” she drawls, unconvinced. “You should probably start checking Fred Atkinson’s work, then. It’s sloppy and appalling and if I had to sit beside him for one more day he wouldn’t exist.”

Dustin frowns. “Okay, besides Fred.”

“While they do that, Dave and I will go over the code and clear the servers.”

Mark frowns and leans forward in his chair, elbows landing on the table and eyes dark slits. “ _I’ll_ go over the code and clear the servers.”

Sabrina stops and glares. “This isn’t child’s play, Zuckerberg. We’re trained professionals.”

“And this is my site. Mine.” 

“This is a case for the CIA.”

“The CIA cannot even fathom what I’ve done to the world. I have greater access, greater control over information than they could ever hope for. The CIA can go fuck itself.”

“Mark, maybe we should let them—” Chris starts but is cut off by Eduardo.

“Would you two stop being such fucking immature assholes? We need as much manpower as possible to clear everything before Luke has a chance to creep back into the system. Which, may I add, he could be doing right this moment? Dave, Dustin, Mark, Sabrina, you will all be going over the site. And if you can think of a few high-ranking, highly capable and trustworthy employees to help, that would be good. Understood?”

Sabrina sighs and slouches back into her chair. “Fine.”

Mark glares but nods just the smallest bit in agreement.

“We’ll need to take the site offline,” Sabrina says.

“We don’t crash,” Mark answers tightly back.

“This is more important than staying online for some fucking sixteen year old to complain about their curfew—”

“We _don’t_ crash,” Mark reiterates and Eduardo has to close his eyes because he can hear the panic in Mark’s voice, can hear it echoing from all those years ago over the phone, admonishing him, demanding to know why Eduardo didn’t _get_ it, this is more than his petty jealousy, this is changing the world. He can feel that same empty pit in his stomach churning, knowing that he’s gone too far, this will never be okay again, even when Mark’s telling him they did it, come down to sign the papers, they’re going to live in a house together and play basketball in the driveway and get married and it’s everything he’s ever wanted (but it’s everything he can’t have, everything he will never hold).

Sabrina starts to argue but Dustin speaks up quickly, “We’ll do as much as we can with the site online, okay? Then we’ll work offline as quickly as possible.”

Sabrina nods reluctantly, though she does cross her arms and swing her chair away from Mark.

“One hour,” Mark supplies, flicking his eyes between Dustin, Sabrina, and Dave. “You have one hour of downtime. That’s it.”

“Are you fucking kidding me—” Sabrina starts.

“Okay,” Dave agrees readily. “We’ll get it done in one hour.”

Mark narrows his eyes in Dave’s direction. He stares for a moment or two, causing Dave to shift uncomfortably under his intense gaze before he flicks to back to Eduardo (who very valiantly does not shift uncomfortably. Much).

Eduardo stands, nodding at Yolanda. “Yolanda and I will clear the building of any physical threats. Call me if you need anything,” he adds, hesitating at the door. But Mark has already procured a laptop and is completely engrossed, fingers flying over the keyboard in a rhythm only he can produce. Eduardo tries not to think about the distance between him and Mark now, tries to push aside that sinking feeling that tells him when he leaves the room, he will lose his last connection to Mark.

He sets his lips in a firm line and follows Yolanda out when she tugs at his sleeve. He never was any good at controlling his feelings.

&&&

Eduardo and Yolanda split the search between themselves and Hugo’s team. Everyone is required to pair up with someone in case of emergency on Eduardo’s orders (and yes, he is a big fat hypocrite, but he feels like crap right now so shut up). He teams up with Yolanda because he doesn’t feel like playing nice and Yolanda rarely takes offense when he gets sulky.

He starts to wonder if that was a mistake because he forgot that while Yolanda doesn’t take offense, she also doesn’t like to shut up when she smells something juicy.

“Wardoooo. Hey, hey, Wardo.”

“What?” Eduardo asks absentmindedly, running his fingers over a wall and knocking occasionally to detect any abnormalities. He frowns when his knocking produces a hollow sound. He repeats his movements, sharp taps on the flat surface.

“You’re sulking. Again. When you really have no reason to,” Yolanda initiates. “Wardo. Hey, Wardo, are you paying attention to me?”

“Yolanda, there is an abnormality in wall that could very well be a bomb, so no. Not really.”

Yolanda tugs Eduardo’s hands away from the wall. “That’s one of mine. Two shotguns and a flamethrower. Or maybe it was the grenade. I don’t remember.” Yolanda frowns and shakes her head, grabbing at Eduardo’s shoulders. “Not important. We need to talk about your feelings.”

“You are insane. Legally insane.” He shrugs his shoulders to dislodge her hands. “Get back to checking for bugs or bombs or something.” He points randomly around the area they are in to distract her.

“I am checking,” she drawls, rolling her eyes. “Ever heard of multitasking?”

“Never.” Eduardo shakes his head in fake sincerity.

“I’m going to bug you until you tell me something,” she answers in a sing-song voice and Eduardo groans because he knows it’s true.

“Okay, fine, what? What do you want to know?” he asks, checking under a potted plant.

“Oh absolutely everything. But for now I’ll settle for why you’re acting like the world has _ended_ when, actually, I can only see good things in your future. Marky knows you’re in the CIA now, it’s all good, argument over, problem solved, yeah?”

Eduardo sighs and doesn’t look up from his investigation when he answers her. “It’s not that simple and you know it. I still lied to him, I still didn’t tell him until I had to, I still came here under false pretenses. I still—” he swallows but continues, “I still denied that he loved me.”

“Your point?”

He looks up at her in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“What’s so difficult about saying sorry and moving on?”

“I _lied_ to him, took his heart in my hands and crushed it,” he mimics crushing movements with his hands.

“Stop being dramatic,” Yolanda waves at him. “You lied to him, and he booted you from his life when he didn’t get the answers he wanted, and you told him he didn’t love you, and he diluted your shares. And you froze the accounts, and he ignored you, and you nagged him too much and he showed up late when you were supposed to meet. Love is not a scorecard, Wardo.”

Eduardo glares at her. “I’m supposed to take relationship advice from you?”

Yolanda nods. “I’m an excellent observer of the human condition.”

“You?”

“Why is that everyone’s reaction when I tell them this?” Yolanda frowns, more to herself than to Eduardo, before focusing back on him. “Anyway. Take my advice. Pursue something you want. Some _one_ you want.”

Eduardo purses his lips. “Dave gave me that same speech.”

“Aw, really?” Yolanda claps her hands together in delight. “He’s grown so well, hasn’t he?”

Eduardo places his hands on her shoulders and spins her around, nudging her slightly to the other end of the room. “Work. You have some.”

“Multitasking, Wardo. You should try it sometime.”

&&&

They finish the sweep of the building, including the exteriors, several hours later. They find a few various weapons that Yolanda did not plant (or at least she doesn’t remember planting them but sometimes she forgets to note things down in her journal so who knows?) and several recording and surveillance devices, which they quickly deactivate. Eduardo hands them over to Hugo and his team to analyze before thanking them for their hard work and bidding them a good night. Eduardo attempts to send Yolanda home to rest but she gives him a Look and follows him back to the conference room which has been commandeered for Mark and everyone to check the code.

They’ve added a few programmers Eduardo knows by profile only but Dustin and Mark seem to deem them worthy so he decides to trust them. Chris is slouching in a chair in the far corner of the room, leaning his head against the cold glass window, cell phone and iPad still clutched in his grip even though his jaw is slack with sleep. The programmers are zoned in, completely focused and driven on their task at hand. Even Dustin barely acknowledges their entry into the room, lifting his eyes for a split second and smiling, tense and exhausted, before returning back.

Eduardo takes a seat behind Mark and suddenly realizes how tired he is. He almost collapses into the chair but catches himself on one of the arms and eases down gently. Yolanda attempts to curl up in Sabrina’s lap but is pushed quite violently to the floor. She offers a series of very loud protests to the analyst that draws the attention of two programmers (Maria and Sam, if Eduardo recalls correctly) and Dustin momentarily.

“Landa,” Eduardo starts, nodding his head to the chair beside him. “Let them concentrate.”

Yolanda pouts at him but trudges over to him, plopping down dramatically next to him and crossing her arms. “I’m mad at Sabrina. And Dave.”

“Why Dave?” he asks out of habit.

“He failed to defend my honor.”

“Mm,” he hums, leaning his head close to hers, using her hair as a pillow. “Shh, Mark’s working, okay?”

He feels rather than sees Mark shift in his chair, as if Eduardo can sense the tiny differences in the composition of the air based solely on where Mark is in relation to Eduardo (like they’re relative, like they exist without comparison until they are brought together and only then can they find some kind of tangible meaning). Mark presses his lips in a tight smile and nods at Eduardo. Eduardo smiles back, tired and worried and still happy to just be in Mark’s presence, to listen to his fingers on the keyboard (the rhythm he can pick out and isolate from the spinning cacophony of typing-tapping-pecking that swirls around the room). “Do you need anything?” he finds himself asking before he can help himself, lulled into familiarity and letting his guard down, allowing himself to test, to dip his toe into the deceitfully calm waters that is Mark and Eduardo and them together.

He knows the response already but he smiles when Mark answers, “We need more Red Bull. And Red Vines.”

Eduardo knows he probably has a stupidly fond look on his face but he can’t bring himself to care (it’s one in the morning and he hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days, he’s expended all his energy earlier that morning chasing down – and ultimately losing – Luke, his face is still tender to the touch, and the crazy notions that Dave and Yolanda told him are starting to make some kind of ridiculous sense in his head). “Of course you do,” he tumbles out, lifting tiredly from his chair, nodding. “Alright, I’ll be back.”

Mark makes a distressed noise at the back of his throat, spinning in his chair to face Eduardo fully. “No, I—”

“I’ll be right back.”

“You don’t have to take care of me, Wardo,” Mark states clearly, eyes so open and blue and powerful (eyes asking Eduardo to listen, to see that there is no code in Mark’s words, they are as they appear, please know that).

Eduardo smiles and steps close to Mark, placing a hand on the back of Mark’s neck and bending at the waist slightly. “I know. I like to. I want to.”

Mark’s eyes flicker but he offers Eduardo a barely-there upturn of his lips and spins back to his computer, fingers flying once again over the keyboard like they never stopped to begin with. “And some beer for when we’re done.”

Eduardo breathes out a noncommittal sigh and nods. “Yeah, okay.” He squeezes his hand on Mark’s neck before turning to leave the room. Yolanda stares owlishly at him before trudging to her feet and following him silently (to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep behind the wheel and also she really wants pizza and she doesn’t trust his choices in toppings).

They return with cases of beer and Red Bull (and everyone is a bit too tired to differentiate them at first before Dave literally has to place the beer _outside_ the room to avoid confusion), various forms of candy (including the – highly over-praised in Eduardo’s opinion – Red Vines), and a copious amount of pizza. The supplies seem to revive the programmers who apparently thrive on little sleep and a constant supply of caffeine in their systems.

Perhaps it’s because he’s tired, or maybe he’s gaining confidence and he wants to test the waters a bit more, or maybe it’s some bizarre happenstance, or the red string of fate that he read about in high school (when he wondered if there could ever be a person out there so connected to him, so vital to his own existence and he to theirs, that the gods had to tie them together. A perfect fit too precious to be lost in the chaos of life, in the slings and arrows of human nature), but Eduardo takes the chair directly beside Mark, scooting it close enough to feel Mark’s heat but far enough they don’t touch. He waits, tense and alert, for a few moments but Mark’s only reaction is so tilt his chair ever-so-minutely into Eduardo’s direction. Eduardo smiles and reaches for a piece of pizza.

Somewhere between his first and second slice of pizza, he falls asleep, eyes sliding shut, lulled by the quiet murmurs of Sabrina asking for an update on their progress and Mark’s tap-tap typing that he isolates in his ears.

&&&

_Tap tap tap_ echoes through into Eduardo’s mind, almost deafening in its amplification. Eduardo frowns and squeezes his eyes shut in protest, nuzzling deeper into the warmth on his cheek. He wonders if he’s been transported to that room with those infinite monkeys with infinite typewriters and one of them has finally written _King Lear_ because everyone is yelling.

“We have five fucking minutes,” someone snaps, typing still keeping pace.

“We wouldn’t have to rush if you’d allow the site to be offline for ten more fucking minutes,” someone else snaps back and Eduardo’s lips upturn because he can tell Sabrina is gritting her teeth.

“The site has been down for fifty-five minutes, that’s way too fucking long.” Eduardo’s smile widens because Mark is being incredibly stubborn and adorable again.

“Maybe if everyone would shut up, we could actually do this.” And that’s Dustin, surprisingly mature and probably pushed past even his bullshit tolerance level.

Eduardo snaps his eyes open when he finally remembers where he is and what’s happening. He sits straight up and realizes in horror that he’s been sleeping on Mark’s lap. Sleeping. On _Mark’s_ lap. He groans and rubs a hand over his face, but thankfully the rest of the group seems to be engrossed in coding or hacking or whatever, they’re typing. He takes a couple moments to blink and take note of his surroundings.

Maria and Sam seem to have been dismissed, and Chris is once again awake and frowning at his iPad, but considerably less tense and worried so Eduardo takes that as a good sign. Yolanda is curled up in a chair, drooling on her arm and making annoyed little sounds every once in a while. Mark, Dustin, Sabrina, and Dave have huddled together, fingers flying and eyes flicking dangerously quickly over their screens (and it reminds Eduardo of the hack-a-thon so many years ago at Harvard but now they’re all drunk on adrenaline instead of alcohol).

“Three minutes,” Mark breathes, hands moving in a blur Eduardo has never seen before.

“We’re never gonna make it. Five more minutes, Mr. Zuckerberg, please,” Dave pleads, hands shaking but consistent.

“Stop calling me Mr. Zuckerberg and no.”

“Done!” Dustin lifts his hands from the keyboard and grins, arms raised in triumph. “What’s my prize, good people of Facebook?”

“There’s beer,” Sabrina answers absently, eyes narrowed at her screen and fingers deceptively slower than Mark and Dave.

“It’s six in the morning,” Dave replies, aghast, but Dustin is already out of his seat and bouncing to retrieve the beer.

“It’s drinking time, my man,” he says cheerfully, dragging the cases into the room.

“Are you done yet?” Mark asks Sabrina.

“Finishing, give me thirty seconds.”

“Twenty.”

“Fuck you, Zuckerberg.”

Mark tilts his head and smirks, the left side of his mouth lifted up (a sign Eduardo recognizes as approval, and something very warm blossoms in his stomach).

They all finish one minute before Mark’s self-imposed deadline, and Facebook is back up after a very long hour of downtime. Chris is already working on a press release full of word manipulation and half-truths to explain it. He advises them all to go home and sleep (looking pointedly at Mark and Eduardo) before he grabs a beer and heads to his office. Yolanda is roused from her nap by Dustin’s loud chattering at Dave and soon she joins in the drinking (which can only be a bad thing because she knows very embarrassing stories about Eduardo and Dustin loves listening to embarrassing stories).

Eduardo, Mark, and Sabrina confer together by the window, orange morning light streaming in from between the blinds and warming Eduardo’s chilled skin. They found a few abnormalities that more than likely belonged to Luke, but they were successful in eliminating them all. Apparently Luke had not been counting on being detected and didn’t make it very difficult to remove his traps.

“What about the Twitter team?” Sabrina asks Eduardo.

“They don’t have any new information just yet,” Eduardo answers, peering cautiously at Mark. “It’s a waiting game again.”

Mark is staring out the window, expression back to blank, dark circles forming under his eyes and Eduardo has to resist the urge to wrap him up in a blanket and feed him hot chocolate. But that would probably be inappropriate. Mostly because that’s ridiculous, but also because Eduardo isn’t sure where he stands with Mark right now and it’s killing him. He would speak up, he would try to clarify but he’s already asked so much of Mark that he can’t help but think he isn’t entitled to ask this slightest bit more. He resolves to let Mark take the lead on this.

Mark nods to the dawning sun and shifts away from the window, eyes passing over Sabrina for a moment before he settles and lingers on Eduardo. He remains silent but trains his gaze on Eduardo’s eyes (large and pleading and a billboard to all his thoughts, or at least it feels like it to Eduardo, striped bare and vulnerable and so desperately needy for Mark that he can’t even bring himself to care). He moves past them and out the door without a word.

Eduardo slumps against the cold glass and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding (but now he does, and he’s greeted back to reality by a sharp pain in his chest and behind his eyes). He feels Sabrina tentatively pat his shoulder.

“It, um, it’ll be okay.” She clears her throat and furrows her brow. “Just, uh, let him cool off?”

He laughs and rubs a hand over his eyes, suddenly tired again. “You’re shit at comforting, by the way.”

“Fuck you, Saverin.”

“Oh, so original, Rina. Like I haven’t heard that one from you before. Go get drunk.” He nudges her towards the group now sprawled out on the floor, Dustin and Yolanda giggling uncontrollably and Dave smiling down into his untouched beer bottle.

“I don’t like beer,” she scrunches her nose in distaste at the group (and Eduardo suspects it has more to do with the company than the beverage choice).

“I got Schnapps too.”

Sabrina smiles and her eyes dance. “That’s my boy.” She strides over and grabs the yet untouched Schnapps bottle. “Alright, children. We’re going to play a little game.”

Yolanda claps excitedly, poking Dustin with her elbow in the process, while Dave widens his eyes. “Sabrina,” he starts. “Let’s not get out of control—”

“For fuck’s sake, Dave, why are you always terrified?”

“Because you have a bottle of Schnapps in your hand! History dictates that now is the time to panic.”

Eduardo watches them for a few seconds before pushing off the window and slipping silently out of the room. He’s going to go home and crash (and maybe wallow in his own self-pity, but that’s his own damn business). He’s halfway down before he hears someone behind him.

“Wardo.”

Eduardo peers over his shoulder to Mark who has his laptop bag over his shoulder and is somehow trying to shrug his hoodie on over it.

“Let’s go,” Mark announces, jerking his head to the right.

Eduardo stares in bemusement but nods slowly and strides toward Mark, taking several double-steps to catch up to him (because of course Mark doesn’t wait for him, just barrels through the hallway, expecting him to follow. Eduardo wonders if he should be annoyed).

They head down to the garage and settle into Mark’s car without a word, the only sounds that obscure the void is the gentle swish of Eduardo’s suit when he walks and the startling thumping of Mark’s flip flops. Eduardo wants to ask where they’re going, but Mark’s face has that determined look that he knows means it doesn’t matter if Eduardo knows where they’re going, they’re going there anyway.

He doesn’t have to wait long for the answer, however, as Mark pulls into his driveway soon enough and shuts the car off. Mark keeps his hands gripped loosely on the wheel and frowns ahead of him, refusing to meet Eduardo’s intense gaze. Eduardo shifts uncomfortably in his seat and finally can’t take the silence anymore. He’d rather having an all-out screaming fest than have Mark ignore him for one more minute.

“Mark, I’m sorry, I was totally in the wrong—”

“I have two questions for you,” Mark interrupts him, fingers now tapping the wheel in what Eduardo recognizes as binary (he wishes it was Morse code because at least _that_ he’s been trained to decode). “Two…Maybe three.” He quirks his lips, pondering. “Two and a half.”

Eduardo breathes out in relief (because Mark is talking to him again) and nervous anticipation (because he’s not entirely sure he has the answers Mark wants to hear). “Yes, fine, two, three, a hundred, whatever. Just ask them already, please.”

Mark peers curiously at Eduardo at his tone. He licks his lips and nods. “Not here. Let’s, uh, let’s go inside.”

Eduardo groans in frustration and flares his hands. “Stop changing locations just to stall for a few fucking minutes and get to the point.”

Mark turns to face Eduardo fully now, a dark scowl on his face. “I hardly think you’re in any position to criticize me.”

“Oh, yes, because I’m always wrong, I know, I get it.” Eduardo lets out a sharp, exasperated breath and stares determinedly out the window. “Why do you always have to push me past my breaking point, huh? Does it make you feel superior to have that much control over me?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? _You’re_ the one who’s been playing with me. For weeks, Wardo. Weeks. Baiting me and, and, fuck, why the _fuck_ won’t you look at me?” Mark demands, gripping Eduardo’s shoulder and forcing his eyes back to Mark’s, angry and defensive.

“I’m fucking terrified, alright?” Eduardo forces himself not to look away, to face Mark and his blue eyes cutting right down into his soul (because he wants. He wants Mark and this and them and he doesn’t know how to get it. He doesn’t know how and he keeps screwing up and getting angry and saying things he shouldn’t be saying, things he doesn’t even really mean, like some kind of ridiculous self-destructive impulse is buried deep into his bones. He’s desperate and needy and everything this world tells him not to be but he can’t stand it anymore so he’s throwing caution to the wind and casting all his ugly and pathetic thoughts down, for the world, for _Mark_ to see). “I have—” He sighs and swallows. “I have faced countless assassins. I’ve infiltrated drug rings and fascist governments. I fucking made three hundred thousand dollars in one summer by predicting the weather, Mark. Who does that? No one does that!”

Eduardo grabs one of Mark’s hands from his shoulder and grips it tightly in his own. Mark’s fingers curl instinctively into Eduardo’s grip. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Eduardo takes that as a sign to continue.

“But, Mark.” He sighs again. “You’re the only person, the only thing that consistently terrifies me. You’re the only person who has this insane power over me.”

Mark’s eyes widen and there’s a flicker of something in their darkened blue color (something akin to possessiveness and desire and that _want_ that echoes through Eduardo’s whole being, more familiar to his body than the pulse of his heart or the touch of his fingers against his own skin). Mark wets his lips and leans forward. “Okay.” He nods to himself, biting his lower lip. “Okay. First question. Did you. Did you get close to me for your assignment?”

Eduardo’s mouth drops in shock. “What? No. Mark, _no_.” He tightens his hold on Mark’s hand. “You’ve got to believe me, that was not how it happened. I was told to avoid you. And also, if you’ll recall, you seduced me.”

Mark squawks. “Explain.”

“Mark, you had everyone in the entire office spy on me. And you arranged far too many unnecessary car rides together. And you put your thumb on my _lip_ , okay?”

“No.” Mark points his free hand at Eduardo, his face set in educating Eduardo on how wrong that statement was. “No, you’re the one who showed up in your stupid suits with your stupid face and your stupid hair and do you have any idea how your ass looks in those pants? You seduced me first.”

Eduardo gapes at him. “Oh, oh, like you have no idea how attractive you are and seriously, Mark, thumb on lip. Not exactly subtle.”

Mark inches closer to Eduardo and he can almost feel Mark’s breath warm on his lips. “Alright, second question. When I told you, uh. The last time we were together and I told you about what I felt—”

Eduardo jumps in recognition and he cuts Mark off preemptively. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

Mark twists his lips down. “What you said about me only wanting you for money. That’s not true, okay?” He runs his thumb across the back of Eduardo’s hand. “I could have gotten the money from anyone. I wanted it to be you. I wanted _you_.”

There’s a voice in the back of Eduardo’s head that tells him it isn’t true, that of course Mark couldn’t want Eduardo just for himself, just because he is who he is. But Mark is looking into his eyes like he’s the only person in the world, like Mark can’t breathe if Eduardo doesn’t take the next breath. Mark is looking at Eduardo the way Eduardo looks at Mark and he thinks maybe he can allow himself to have everything he wants, for once. “Yeah. I understand.”

Mark flicks his eyes over Eduardo’s face before smiling (that smile that Eduardo is addicted to, the drug he’ll never get enough of). He leans in to close the couple of inches between them and settles his mouth on Eduardo’s, dry lips to dry lips, in a chaste kiss.

Or, at least it was probably intended as a chaste kiss. Eduardo is pretty sure it was supposed to be a chaste kiss. But when he feels the still so unfamiliar pressure of Mark’s lips against his own, he opens his mouth with a little sigh and scrapes his teeth lightly against Mark’s lower lip, fluttering his eyes closed and just feeling. Mark makes a surprised noise somewhere between a grunt and a gasp and wraps his free hand around Eduardo’s neck. It settles there for a couple moments – warm and firm and inducing goose bumps all the way down Eduardo’s neck and back from the way his fingers play lightly with the hair at the nape – before he tightens and tugs _down_ harshly, crushing their lips together with bruising force.

Eduardo tries to gasp from the sudden movement but Mark’s tongue is in his mouth before he has a chance, wet and hot and a little bit frantic. Eduardo moans and leans closer into Mark, tipping him down awkwardly against Mark’s car seat and settling over him (and who the hell designed these things anyway, they are totally not conducive to making out), his mind chanting a mantra of _want, want, want, mine, mine, mine_.

He thinks he might have said it out loud until he realizes Mark’s lips have disengaged from his own and are trailing down his throat, claiming his skin as they go along, “Mine. Mine. Mine.” Mark punctuates each word with a small nip.

Eduardo laughs into Mark’s hair and shifts to straddle him, thighs bracketing thighs. He feels Mark’s erection against his own and he wonders how they’ve both been reduced to having the libidos of sixteen-year-old boys (not that he’s complaining, but really. How?). Mark lifts his hips up and into Eduardo’s shift, hand still pulling his neck down.

“Mine,” he enunciates again.

Eduardo hums in agreement, running his hands down Mark’s chest until he reaches the hem of his shirt. He slides his fingertips inside and traces a line above his pants. “What was question two-and-a-half?” he asks idly.

“Huh?” Mark slides his knee up so their hips brush together again.

Eduardo lets out a shuddering breath and nips the shell of Mark’s ear. “You had two and a half questions.”

“You really want to get into this conversation? Like, now?”

Eduardo shrugs. “I’m a curious soul.” He pecks Mark’s cheek and smiles. “Humor me?”

Mark narrows his eyes at Eduardo in half a scowl but sighs and runs his hand up into Eduardo’s hair. “I wanted to know where this was going. Us. But I’m pretty sure it involves a bed in the near future so let’s continue, shall we?”

Eduardo frowns as a thought occurs to him and sits up, hands balanced on Mark’s chest. “Wait a minute.”

“What?” Mark looks shocked and very put out.

“Well.” Eduardo smiles sheepishly and scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, where are we going with this?”

“A bed. Or maybe the car. Clothes will be shed,” Mark answers succinctly and tries to tug Eduardo down by his wrist.

Eduardo shakes his head and hates himself for what he’s doing (his body really hates him. Especially his lower half. Yeah, his lower half wants to kill him at the moment), but this is too important to mess up again. “Mark. Think with your upstairs brain for a moment.”

Mark raises his eyebrows and stares incredulously at him. “Did you just say ‘upstairs brain’? Did you seriously just say that?”

Eduardo rolls his eyes. “We have things to discuss. You’ve been up for who knows how many days and probably aren’t thinking properly. I’m still kind of locked into my job. You know, the job that sends me around the world and doesn’t really leave me much room for a boyfriend?”

Mark stills at this and sits up slightly on his elbows, frowning. “What are you—”

“I’m saying we have to figure things out. We shouldn’t rush things again. We have a very bad history of impulse decisions.”

Mark’s ensuing shrug has just the smallest touch of arrogance and Eduardo can’t help but smile at him. He leans down and cups Mark’s cheek in his palm, running his thumb across the smooth skin. “This is really important. I don’t want to lose you again. Please.”

Mark sighs and nods, bringing a hand up to his face to rub his eyes. “Yeah. No, you’re right.” He groans when Eduardo climbs off of him and into his own seat again. “So, how long are we supposed to wait?”

Eduardo shrugs and shifts uncomfortably. “At least until we have some perspective on what we’re going to do and how we’re going to do it.”

Mark nods in agreement. "Okay."

They stay still in the car for a while, calming their breathing and racing hearts. Finally, Mark turns his head to look at Eduardo. “You wanna come in? To sleep. In the very literal sense of the word, of course.”

Eduardo raises an eyebrow before his face cracks into a grin. “Mark Zuckerberg, are you asking me to cuddle?”

Mark scowls at him and throws open the car door, stomping to the house. "You were right, we should think about this. We should break up, we're broken up. Bye Wardo."

Eduardo alights from the car and jump-runs after him, face still locked in a grin he can’t wipe off his face.

&&&

Eduardo borrows a t-shirt from Mark to sleep in and if Mark looks a little longer with pupils a little more dilated than usual, Eduardo doesn’t mention it (and if Eduardo happens to glance over at Mark a little more than usual when he’s undressing, well. Whatever, it’s been a long couple of days). Mark suddenly seems to realize just how exhausted he is when his back hits the soft surface of his comforter. He slides his eyes closed and squirms around until he’s worked his way under the covers without actually lifting them, murmuring in quiet, slurred words that Eduardo should turn off the lights.

Eduardo’s lips quirk up in a smile, amused, and he answers back that it’s a little difficult to turn off the sun, crawling in behind Mark after he yanks the blinds down to block out as much light as possible.

“I’m sure you could figure out a way,” Mark yawns, curling onto his side and yanking the comforter over his shoulders.

Eduardo pauses, unsure (unsure of how much he can take, of how much room Mark is allowing him. Unsure of Mark’s confidence in him, of his confidence in Mark, unsure, unsure, unsure. Because predicting the weather is far from knowing it with the certainty the past affords him. And with Mark there had been aburpt downpours and whirling winds and sudden moments of electrifying calm when Mark’s full attention was focused on him, solely on _him_ ). He turns onto his side, facing Mark’s back, and reaches out a tentative hand, uncurling his fingers and stretching them to brush Mark’s shoulder (soft and feather-light). He runs them slightly over the cotton material of Mark’s shirt, feeling the fabric—worn thin and near textureless from frequent washes—with a quiet reverence.

Mark makes a small, annoyed sound in the back of his throat and blindly reaches behind him. He places his hand over Eduardo’s and drags it to settle firmly just above his hip. His shoulders relax shortly thereafter, tension melting until they are slack with sleep.

Eduardo’s eyes are wide and probably just the smallest bit wet, his lips pulled into a sickeningly lovestruck smile (but Mark’s already asleep and his back is turned to Eduardo anyway so Eduardo doesn’t bother hiding it, lets it play on his mouth and up his cheeks, in the slope of his brows and the squint of his eyes. It transforms his face into a thousand whispers he never dared utter, into the multitude of thoughts that pass through his mind in such rapid succession that they blend into a continuous, unflinching reality, Mark, Mark, Mark).

He lies motionless and completely enamored for a while, watching his hand above Mark’s hip rise and fall with Mark’s slow breathing, tightening and then releasing his fingers with the rhythm (his hand squeezes with the upward motion of Mark’s inhalation, grip gentle but sure, four fingers and one thumb clutching in devoted fidelity, refusing to dislodge with the movement, relaxing and elongating with Mark’s long exhalation, confident in their position and reaching for more, where they belong, at Mark’s side, inches below Mark’s heart, skin and muscle and bone and everything Eduardo loves in substantial form).

His eyes flicker up to the window, slits of sunlight beaming through the blinds in parallel patterns onto the floor and halfway up the bed. He remembers how he used to think that Mark was the sun to his world, warm and impossibly large and the source, the very essence of life to him. And perhaps he was, in that overly poetic, incredibly trite sort of way (but the sun is a star, like all those twinkling sirens in the sky, beckoning him towards its beauty, veering closer to his world than any other star and making he feel, making him hope that yes, he could obtain that, yes, this was a star, but this was his star). He had fixed his rotation around Mark, a constant revolution, spinning in Mark’s gravity, defining himself and his seasons by him, blinded in the day under his full warmth. But stars didn’t last forever and when he veered too close, he got burned. (The sun wasn’t meant to love or be loved.)

Eduardo frowns, fingers tightening with Mark’s inhalation. He lost himself, all those years ago. Perhaps he had never known who he was to begin with, not fully (shaping himself into who his father wanted him to be, who his father thought he was, who Mark thought he could be, who Christy wanted. He bent and molded himself in so many directions, trying to be what he thought everyone else wanted him to be). But somewhere between facemash and thefacebook and lawsuits and anger and depression and wild adventures in the CIA, he lost whatever part of himself that he knew (blinded by the sun, haunted by its reflection in the night sky). He had slipped through roles and guises and masks so often he didn’t know where he really was anymore.

He lost himself when he needed to. He drowned in assignments and prescribed behaviors because then it wasn’t him, he didn’t exist (and if he didn’t exist he could never have disappointed anyone, could never have failed). But he doesn’t want to be lost anymore. 

And he isn’t. He can feel it in his bones, in the way his blood warms his body, in the way Mark locks his eyes on Eduardo and sees him, wills him back into existence, breath and life and another point of origin, a new axis to spin on, his _own_ axis (because Mark doesn’t want another satellite to orbit around him. Mark never wanted that, never wanted Eduardo to prove himself. Mark has only ever wanted Eduardo. _Wardo_. The man Mark always knew was there, hidden under years of trying too hard and fighting too long). Eduardo wonders if, all those years ago, things could have been different. If he knew what he knows now. That Eduardo doesn’t have to try for Mark. Mark loves him, not because he molds himself into what Mark wants, but because Mark loves _him_.

It’s a heady revelation (but it’s not a revelation, not really. Eduardo has always known it, somewhere in the depths of his mind, waiting in the company of his true self. Waiting not for sun or light or a set of tasks to prove himself worthy, but waiting for faith and love and the gentle touch of hope). His breath is heavy in his lungs and he curls into Mark’s form, sliding his hand (faithful guard atop Mark’s hip) further around Mark to lay flat on his stomach, inching his ankle between Mark’s. He sets his lips against the back of Mark’s neck and slides his eyes closed.

“You are my oceans,” he whispers into Mark’s skin, voice low and soft, breathless as if the words are too precious, too rare to be carried to Mark by any means but the direct pressure of Eduardo’s lips on warm skin. “My rivers and seas. Lakes and streams and all sorts of bodies of water.” He smiles and runs his thumb back and forth over Mark’s stomach. “You give me life and flow through me and around me and under me in places I can’t see. But you’re there, supporting me, nourishing me and my forests and grasslands and drowning my deserts.”

Eduardo jumps when Mark chuckles in amusement (though to Mark’s defense he tried to silence it. It’s Eduardo’s hand on Mark’s stomach, contracting and releasing, that clued him in). “Since when did you start listening?” Eduardo asks, lips still pressed against Mark’s neck.

Mark shifts his head against his pillow and hems but doesn’t answer Eduardo. Instead he asks, amusement ringing through his voice, “What does all that even _mean_?”

Eduardo pouts. “Shut up. I was trying to tell you how much I love you.”

Mark stills and Eduardo’s hand on his stomach lies motionless, the steady up and down from Mark’s breathing stopped. “Oh,” he finally answers, voice small and quiet.

Eduardo sighs and shifts his head finally to fit his chin against the juncture between Mark’s neck and shoulder but doesn’t say anything.

“You could have, like, said that,” Mark says in stilted words. “About the love part. You could just say that.”

Eduardo holds his breath for a moment but nods against Mark. “I love you, Mark.”

Mark shifts his head to peer at Eduardo, a smile stretched over his lips and eyes half-lidded in arrogant confidence. “Of course you do.”

Eduardo laughs and presses a kiss to Mark’s cheek. “Cocky asshole.”

“I have one of each, yes.”

Eduardo wrestles Mark in retaliation, grinning when he attacks Mark’s sides. “You love me too.”

“Love is such an ugly word,” Mark pontificates, arms flailing to protect himself.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Eduardo manages to get Mark underneath him, pinning Mark’s wrists in his grip against the bed, thighs straddling Mark’s hips, mouth laughing against Mark’s jaw. He presses open-mouthed kisses up Mark’s sharp jaw line, settling on his lips, slipping his tongue into Mark’s mouth, sliding against his tongue. It’s slow and languid and very, very thorough.

Mark slips a hand from Eduardo’s grasp, slides it up Eduardo’s forearm, up and over his shoulder until it brushes the hair at the back of Eduardo’s neck. He splays his fingers, letting them drift into slowly up, cradling Eduardo’s head and applying a slight pressure that says _more, closer, more, more_.

Eduardo responds immediately, pressing down, fumbling his hands to touch somewhere, anywhere on Mark (his face, his knees, his hands, his hips). He falls in sync with Mark, hands molding against him in perfect symmetry (loyal guardians, valiant in their watch and desperate to behold their keeper). He slides down Mark slightly, angling his lips at Mark's still insistent pressure. He moans into Mark's mouth because somehow Mark's other hand has found its way to the small of Eduardo's back and is pressing down, down, down until he can feel Mark hard against him. He jerks his hips in desperate response.

Mark laughs and breaks from the kiss to settle his lips against Eduardo's neck, sucking. "I thought you wanted to wait." He sounds smug and full of himself and just a little hoarse from arousal and Eduardo can hardly think properly anymore.

"We waited. Three hours. Give or take," Eduardo manages, dropping his hands to Mark's waist and slipping his fingers up his shirt (and at this point he doesn't even notice the near-textureless feel of the cotton against his hands that fascinated him earlier in the day).

Mark's breath hitches when Eduardo finds a nipple, rubbing him thumb back and forth over it. He jerks his hips up against Eduardo's. "We're impeccable examples of self-control."

Eduardo laughs into Mark's hair and presses a small kiss into the curls. "I love you. I've loved you for a long time now, I think. And I want to be with you. And even," he swallows and continues, "even if we can't work things out the way I'd like, I still want to try. That's all the thinking I need to do." Eduardo holds his breath when Mark's lips still momentarily, wondering if he said too much, or not enough, or when he would ever learn to go with the mood and shut his mouth for one hour, sheesh.

Mark raises himself on his elbows and with a sudden force, flips Eduardo onto his back. Mark looms over Eduardo's prone body, arms bracketing Eduardo's head and a thigh slipped between his own. Eduardo lets out a shuttering breath, staring up at Mark, straight into those blue eyes that fascinate him, feels them pierce through his own eyes (dark and ocean-deep) to the left of his chest (that space that remained hollow and vacant for so many years) where he feels a telltale _thump thump_ , the return of his heart. Mark bends and places his mouth on Eduardo's, teeth scraping slightly over Eduardo's lower lip before pulling back to look at him again.

"I am never getting over you," Mark confesses, his tone almost dull in confidence, like he was reciting a fact from an encyclopedia. "So we should probably never break up again."

Eduardo can't breathe, can't speak, can't even blink his eyes, but none of that matters because Mark is here with him and maybe they're still really young and still slightly stupid (and maybe they'll always be a bit stupid, because that's the price of brilliance, isn't it?) but they're in this together (they've always been in this together, even through the dilution and account freezing and refusal to acknowledge that they were lashing out because it hurt. They've always been tied to one another). Eduardo grins and grips Mark's wrist beside his head. He tugs until he can bring Mark's hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I won't if you won't."

Mark smirks, that seductive lift of one corner of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. "Deal," Mark affirms before tapping his fingers against Eduardo's lips. Eduardo raises an eyebrow but Mark supplies, “Open.”

“You have a strange fascination with my mouth.”

Mark shrugs, unconcerned, and Eduardo obediently opens his lips, sucking Mark’s forefinger and middle finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and between them, applying a rhythmic suction that makes Mark’s nose flare and pupils dilated. It’s intoxicating so Eduardo sucks harder, drawing them in further until he feels them slide against the back of his throat. Mark groans and drags them out, saliva wet on the back of his hand and Eduardo’s chin. Mark flattens against Eduardo, replacing his fingers with his tongue inside Eduardo’s mouth. Eduardo moans, pushing up into Mark’s frame when Mark’s fingers (fingers wet with his own saliva) brush under his shirt and across his nipples, squeezing with a slight pressure. He’s hard and desperate for friction and skin on skin and Mark _inside_ of him.

“Mark,” he breathes out, his hands working Mark’s own shirt up, up, up until it bunches to a stop at Mark’s shoulders. Eduardo makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat, shoving Mark away to get the shirt _off_ (the evil, evil shirt with no buttons down the middle so he has to pull it over Mark’s head. And this is why everyone should wear button-down shirts all the time. And by everyone, Eduardo means Mark).

Mark makes a pouting noise and dives back onto Eduardo’s mouth, crushing together with more force than before.

“Mark,” Eduardo tries again, hands bunched in the shirt.

“Not done kissing you yet,” Mark somehow answers open mouthed against Eduardo.

“It’ll take two se—mmphf.” Eduardo is cut off when Mark crushes their lips together again. He forgets to retaliate immediately because Mark’s hips jerk against his and their erections brush together through their underwear with delicious friction. Arousal spikes through Eduardo all the way down to his toes. He releases the shirt and scrapes his nails down Mark’s back, spreading his legs and hitching his right thigh over Mark’s left hip.

“Fuck,” Mark swears, bending his head into the crook of Eduardo’s shoulder and neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeats in rapid succession, hands tugging Eduardo’s boxer briefs off in quick, jerky motions. He wraps his fingers around Eduardo’s cock, stroking up and down briefly.

Eduardo keens low in his throat, hips thrusting up into Mark’s hand. “Lube,” he manages to say before he decides to do the sex thing later and come in Mark’s hand again (which, okay yes, that would be fucking fantastic and he plans on doing that again in the future. Frequently). But he wants Mark, wants to feel Mark inside, feel Mark stretch and throb and come because he’s fucking Eduardo and he can’t think properly (because Eduardo makes Mark lose his rational thinking, makes him subhuman and desperate just like Mark makes Eduardo).

Mark seems to agree because he’s flopped over the bed to yank open his nightstand drawer, throwing things around and out of it to find the lube. Eduardo takes the momentary pause to shrug out of his shirt.

“Ah-ha!” Mark exclaims holding the lube up in his hand and grinning triumphantly over his shoulder at Eduardo. He throws the small bottle over to Eduardo and goes back to the drawer, tossing things about again in his quest to find some other object that Eduardo assumes is a condom.

Eduardo picks the bottle up, twirling it between his fingers before shrugging and popping open the top, spreading a generous amount over his fingers. He rubs his fingers together momentarily before reaching down and inserting one finger in himself, slow and firm. His breath hitches and he takes a moment to get used to the feeling before he inserts another finger and starts to scissor them, stretching himself in a slow burn that's so satisfying and yet still _not enough_ because he needs Mark and Mark's fingers in him and _Mark in him_ and Mark's eyes watching and oh shit when did Mark turn around and start staring at him like that?

Mark's mouth is slack (delicious red and wet and swollen from Eduardo), his eyes blown wide and full of awe and arousal and they're so fucking intense and hot and trained solely, directly on Eduardo, on Eduardo's fingers in his ass, on his cock that's hard and dripping precome helplessly onto his stomach. Mark's chest heaves and suddenly he flips himself over Eduardo, growling against Eduardo's ear, hands reaching down to replace Eduardo's.

"So hot. You're so fucking--" Mark doesn't finish his sentence but Eduardo doesn't seem to be able to care because now Mark's left hand in kneading the skin just below his stomach and the fingers on his right are _inside_ Eduardo.

Eduardo moans, neck arching against the pillow behind his head, thrusting his hips into Mark's ministrations. "Mark, please, enough."

Mark shakes his head into Eduardo's shoulder, lips fused to his skin there. "Never enough."

Eduardo wants to laugh but it comes out as a mangled gasp, breathless and shuddering. "Fuck, Mark, get inside me _now_."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." He can feel Mark smile against him and he can't remember a time where sex has felt so urgent and yet so incredibly adorable at the same time. But maybe that's what love does to people.

He doesn’t have much time to ponder his new-found philosophy because Mark has somehow shed his clothing and acquired a condom in record time. He arranges himself over Eduardo, hands hesitant now (feather-light, barely-there touches that activate shocks and jerks and shooting, undulating currents of energy and what feels like pockets of pure sugar down his legs and arms and racing towards just below his stomach). Mark frowns and traces a finger over the healing scar from the knife wound Eduardo suffered all those weeks ago (when things were uncertain and Eduardo didn’t believe happiness and love and everything good and wonderful were for him).

“You got this at Facebook,” he says, a statement.

Eduardo frowns but nods.

Mark runs his finger over it again with more pressure this time. “This one is mine, then.”

“Shit,” Eduardo breathes and nearly comes, eyes wide and heart racing at the calm possessiveness in Mark’s tone, the set of Mark’s brows, the way he runs his finger over the scar again, transfixed.

Apparently Mark is satisfied with that reaction because he leans down and seals his lips against Eduardo’s and pushes his hips down and—

“Oh, fuck, you’re tight,” Mark gasps, clasping his hands tight over Eduardo’s hips.

Eduardo breathes out a chuckle and shifts under Mark, grinning when Mark’s eyes squeeze tight. “Are you going to fuck me or just lay here for a while?”

Mark opens his eyes and smirks and then he pulls back and bucks his hips forward and all Eduardo can see and hear and feel and smell and taste is Mark (above and under and through him because Mark is Eduardo’s oceans and lakes and rivers and underground currents). And it’s so fucking good, so fucking _right_ , and also really, really hot. Because it’s Mark, lips wet and reddened, hands hot and sweaty brushing over the muscles of his stomach, hair a tussled mess and dark blue eyes alight with excitement and arrogance and love.

Eduardo has to remember how to swallow when he realizes that yes, Mark looks like a sex god because _he_ bruised those lips and ran his hands through that hair and sucked that hickey into the side of his neck and it's _Eduardo_ who's making Mark swear incoherently against his neck, a sinful chorus of _fuck fuck, shit, Wardo, I can't, Wardo, fuckfuckfuck_. It's Eduardo who's making Mark's hands tighten on his hips with every upward thrust, with every downward pull, making his breathing labored and hot and wet against his skin.

And it's Mark who's making Eduardo forget how to function, forget every thought in his mind until all he knows is the steady hum of Mark's swearing-breathing-baby-baby-so-good-oh-fuck-so-good-Wardo. It’s Mark that’s stretching him, filling him, making him feel bolts of pleasure and _fuck-yes-yes-fuck-that’s-it-right-there_ all the way down to the soles of his feet. It’s Mark who makes him buck his hips and arch his back off the bed when Mark hits his prostrate _just so_.

“Mark,” he groans, hips thrusting up in no discernable rhythm. “Mark, I’m gonna come.”

Mark wraps his hand around Eduardo’s cock and strokes in parallel with his thrusts. “Yeah, me too. Come on, just a little more.”

“Mark, shit.” Eduardo reaches his hands up, runs them down Mark’s back, clutching. He comes with a strangled whine in the back of his throat, spurts of come leaking over Mark’s hand and between their stomachs, wet and sticky.

“Fuck, Wardo.” Mark bites his bottom lip and stills against Eduardo before collapsing over him, all loose limbs and heavy breathing.

Mark gets his breath back first and turns his head to press a kiss against Eduardo’s cheek, lazy and uncoordinated and perfect in every way. “We should have been doing that earlier. Years earlier.” A pause. “Like the night we met.”

Eduardo laughs and wraps his arms up and around Mark’s neck, tugging him closer. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”

Mark hems and shifts, yawning out something that sounds like “just because you give me orgasms now doesn’t mean I have to listen to you,” but his eyes are drifting closed so Eduardo counts it as a victory before he follows Mark’s example.

&&&

Eduardo wakes up in the late afternoon to an insistent banging outside. He cracks an eye open slightly and shifts, feeling a heavy pressure on his left side (right above the space where his heart has returned to life, a steady _thump thump_ he hasn’t felt since Mark’s eyes were on him and they launched the site that changed the world. It’s a weighty and somewhat uncomfortable sensation, like his veins aren’t used to the blood supply and are adjusting to the new development, like he isn’t used to happiness, like he doesn’t know how to contain this giddy feeling that threatens his demise. He’s not exactly sure how to breathe when he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the steady _thump thump_ needs oxygen and he feels his lungs filling with it despite himself). He yawns and shifts again, tilting his head to see Mark half-splayed over him, yet somehow managing to throw a leg over the edge of the bed. He lets out an amused sigh and nudges Mark with his shoulder.

“Mark. Mark, wake up.”

Mark frowns, his brows furrowing together. Eduardo bends his head forward and kisses his forehead. Mark smirks and tightens his arm around Eduardo’s stomach.

Eduardo’s eyes narrow. “You’re awake.”

Mark hems but his smirk grows.

“Asshole.”

“The asshole you’re in love with.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“As an insult, that was beneath your intelligence level.” Mark opens his eyes and leans forward to kiss Eduardo’s chin. “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon,” Eduardo corrects, running a hand up and down Mark’s back.

Mark frowns and shifts his eyes to the hallway. “What’s that noise?”

Eduardo hems and lazily runs a hand over Mark’s messy hair. “I think someone is at your front door.” He pauses and squints his eyes, noticing a slight discord in the banging noises. “Actually, I think two someones are at your door.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “No shit. Who’s at the door?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of elite super spy or something ridiculous like that?”

Eduardo rolls his eyes this time, huffing out an amused (if slightly exasperated) breath. “I’m an agent of the CIA, Mark, not a psychic.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Your occupation is becoming less and less interesting by the minute.”

Eduardo lolls his head back onto the pillow and chuckles under his breath. He pushes Mark’s chest. “Get off.”

Mark opens his mouth to reply but quickly closes it.

“What?”

Mark shakes his head and rolls off the bed. “Nothing.” He grabs a discarded t-shirt and pulls it over his head. “I’ll get them to shut up.”

Eduardo frowns and contemplates the now empty doorway, running his fingers idly over the tangled comforter where mere moments ago his life was perfect (where he had no doubts and he didn’t overanalyze every movement and shift of Mark’s eyes). He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. He tries to remember that he is not the Eduardo from all those years ago (the one who was needy and dependent on others for his self-confidence. The one who gave and gave until he was an empty shell, hollow and fragile and dying to crack because then _someone_ would have to pick up his pieces. Someone would have to care, even if only because of the mess he made). He tries to remember that he is not the Eduardo from six months ago (the one who built walls with bricks of regret and mortar of bitter disregard. The one who doubted and closed himself off from the world because he knew now that when his fragile shell broke, no one would be there to pick up the pieces. No one would know what it was like to find the scattered pieces of himself and meld them together into a semblance of the person he thought he was). He tries to remember that he’s the Eduardo with a future (the one who’s a little less naïve, a little more worldly and self-sufficient. The one who can admit he needs someone, the one who knows what he wants. The one who knows he can have it). He tries to remember and he almost succeeds (but his heart is a din of forgotten emotions that his head will have to sort through).

For the moment he remembers that he’s the Eduardo who is currently naked in Mark Zuckerberg’s (very conspicuously rumpled) bed and there are people in the house. A lot of people from what it sounds like through the open door, the quick patter of feet on hardwood drifting alarmingly closer.

His eyes widen and he groans when he recognizes the scurry of feet against the backdrop of excited squealing. He has just enough time to throw himself under the comforter before Yolanda and Dustin burst into the room with the most idiotic grins on their faces (as expected), arms linked together (should have been expected, they’re practically the same person. A fact Eduardo decides he has to analyze at a much later date. Years from now. When he’s ninety. He has a lot of issues, okay? Surrounding himself with ridiculous people is the least of his worries. He hopes.), and a cake (rather unexpected). The cake is decorated in loud icing, spelling out on the top in stark blue letters “Congrats on the sex”. Eduardo sighs heavily and prays they don’t start singing _The Lonely Island_.

“Ah-ha! It’s true, look how rumpled he is!” Yolanda gushes, nudging Dustin with her elbow.

Dustin nods excitedly. “I think Mommy and Daddy are back together.”

“Does that make us siblings?” Yolanda’s eyes are wide and eager and she’s staring up at Dustin like she’s just discovered him.

Dustin opens his mouth and stares at Yolanda. He tilts his head and shoots his gaze in Eduardo’s direction. “Mommy?”

“Why am I the mother?” Eduardo demands, voice a little higher and louder than he expected it to be. Because the parent analogy is ridiculous, but more importantly, why is he the mother? Seriously, why is he the mother?

Dustin and Yolanda fix a Look on him and roll their eyes in unison (Eduardo wonders if they practiced that or if he really did stumble upon the female version of Dustin. And now that they’ve met each other, should he apologize to the world or just run away?).

“Zuckerberg is obviously the dad, Wardo,” Yolanda says, the _duh_ heavy in her tone. “That makes you the mom.” She pauses before adding, “Duh.” (Just in case her tone wasn’t sufficient.)

Eduardo narrows his eyes and points an accusing finger at her. “Sabrina will be having words with you about your sexist stereotyping.” He points at Dustin. “And you too.”

“You know, normally I would, but they’re right in this case,” Sabrina drawls, sidling into the room followed by Mark, his laptop under his arm. “You’re the mommy.”

Eduardo scowls at her and looks to Mark for help as Mark climbs back into bed beside Eduardo and opens his laptop. Mark shrugs indifferently but Eduardo can detect a smirk that he quickly hides. “I hate you all,” Eduardo says, not for the first time.

Dustin makes melodramatic, gasping noises and clutches his heart, thrusting the cake into Yolanda’s hands so he is free to perform at full capacity and Yolanda rolls her eyes again. “You always say that darling and yet you never mean it.”

“I assure you, Yolanda. I mean it every single time.”

“I don’t take assurances from naked men.”

“I’m not—” Eduardo starts to protest but stops himself because okay, maybe he is naked. But Yolanda doesn’t know that and he doesn’t appreciate being falsely (accurately) accused of perversity. “I’m not naked,” he finished (because he’s a little defiant and brazen sometimes and he’s finally coming to accept and embrace that. And also seriously, how dare Yolanda impinge on his pristine reputation).

Yolanda, however, is less than impressed with Eduardo’s show of dignity. She rolls her eyes (again. She’s going to get a nasty headache like that and Eduardo knows he should probably warn her but she also falsely accused him of being naked so he forgoes his usual display of civility. Almost).

“You’re going to get a headache like that.”

“I wouldn’t have to roll my eyes if you’d stop making me.”

He points his finger at her. “I am not naked.” He looks to Mark beside him, typing on his computer and ignoring the chaos that is Eduardo’s life. “Right Mark?”

Mark’s fingers slow momentarily before they resume their usual high paced speed. It’s hardly noticeable except that Eduardo has tuned his ears to catch even the slightest difference in momentum and speed and acceleration (long before he joined the CIA, back when he could detect Mark’s opinion and mood and sometimes even his thoughts based solely on the speed of his fingers on the keyboard). “Right,” Mark answers, eyes not leaving his screen, though his foot does inch beneath the covers and his toe runs down Eduardo’s right calf.

Eduardo shoots him a look that he meant to be scolding but probably comes across as sulking. At least according to Dustin and his new BFF Yolanda (the world is doomed. Doomed). Mark does not react, save for the nonchalant shrug and tiny smirk he directs at Eduardo. Eduardo sighs, defeated, and decides to change the subject. “Where are Dave and Chris?” he asks.

Sabrina stiffens and shifts uncomfortably. “They’re at Facebook.”

Eduardo narrows his eyes, suspicious. “Really? They’re at Facebook? And missing all this?” He gestures around the room, particularly stalling on Yolanda and Dustin

Dustin tilts his head. “Why are you pointing at me? What did I do?”

Eduardo ignores him. “You expect me to believe Chris would let Dustin out on his own. With his new partner in ridiculous crime?”

“Was that a thinly veiled comment about me?” Yolanda pips, shifting the cake uncomfortably in her hands.

“I don’t think it was veiled,” Mark supplies unhelpfully.

Eduardo glares at him momentarily before turning back to Sabrina. “What did you do to them?”

“Nothing.” Sabrina inspects her nails, ignoring Eduardo.

“What did she do to them, Yolanda?”

Yolanda tries to wave her hand dismissively but frowns down at the cake. She thrusts it back into Dustin’s hands, freeing her hand so she can wave it unhelpfully in front of Eduardo. “Nothing serious.”

Sabrina smirks at Eduardo, obviously thinking she has Yolanda’s full loyalty.

“She just knocked him out cold and Chris insisted he stay with him to make sure he’s okay.” She turns to Dustin. “He’s such a worrywart.”

Dustin nods enthusiastically. “I try to tell him it’s bad for his health.” Yolanda makes a sympathetic noise.

“What?!” Eduardo exclaims.

“Yolanda you’re an idiot.” Sabrina scowls at her teammate.

Yolanda gasps and places her hands on her chest, affronted. “You’re the one who got me involved in this, meanie.” She pauses before adding, “And you smell.”

“You wanna fight? Let’s go, I’ll take you here and now.”

“Bring it on, bro.”

“No one is fighting in Mark’s house!” Eduardo yells over the chaos.

“I don’t mind,” Mark voices from beside him.

Eduardo glares at him again. “You’re not helping.”

Mark shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“Is anyone going to eat this cake?” Dustin interjects. “It’s made with my love. My love!”

Eduardo raises his left hand and rubs his brow with the other. “Okay, just. Give me a minute here.” He takes several deep breaths before he continues. “Why did Sabrina knock Dave out?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Yes! It’s _Dave_.”

Yolanda nods and cocks her head at Sabrina. “He’s right.” She leans closer to Sabrina. “It’s _Dave_.”

Sabrina sneers down at Yolanda. “You’re the one with the big mouth.”

“Dave would have tattled on you anyway.”

Sabrina pauses and tilts her head. “Touché. Okay, fine, but it was totally not my fault, alright? We were all drinking and having a good time.” Sabrina points her finger at Eduardo, mimicking his melodramatic pose. “We were, okay? But then Dave had to butt his head into my business and he took my phone away from me. Like, who does that? That’s my baby.”

“Why did Dave need to take your phone away from you?”

“He didn’t. He’s just crazy.” Sabrina crosses her arms and Eduardo just stares at her. “I was calling the Queen, alright?”

“Please tell me you don’t mean the Queen of England,” Eduardo groans.

Sabrina scoffs. “Is there any other queen I have an issue with?”

Mark finally raises his head from his laptop and purses his lips. “Why—” He frowns and turns his head to Eduardo. “Why does she have issues with the Queen of England?”

“Please don’t start this—” Eduardo begins but is hastily cut off by his insane teammates.

“She’s been wearing the same kind of glasses for decades, okay? She’s loaded. She can wear the best, the newest styles. But noooooo,” she stretches out the word dramatically (which isn’t fair because when Eduardo does something dramatically, they all tell him he’s melodramatic but she can be as crazy as she likes and no one will say anything because they’re all afraid of her. Okay, maybe that’s fair). “She insists on showing up in magazines and television in those awful glasses. And the hats. The hats, those hats! Who does she think she is? Honestly!”

“You started it,” Eduardo sighs to Mark. He turns to Yolanda while Sabrina continues her rant obliviously. “Why didn’t you stop this?”

“What, me?” Yolanda points to herself, confused.

Eduardo nods at her.

“I was making cake.” She gestures to Dustin, who has finally given in and is eating the cake with his hands.

“What?” he asks. “If no one is going to eat my love, at least I can enjoy it.”

“Yolanda don’t you dare,” Eduardo warns but she ignores him and reaches out, grabbing a handful of cake happily. Eduardo shakes his head and sighs at Mark. “Welcome to my life.”

Mark smiles at him and leans forward for a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. “Thank you for coming back,” he says quietly before pulling back and returning to his computer.

Eduardo can’t stop grinning for the next hour, even when Dave and Chris arrive and Eduardo’s team has to have a very serious discussion on Not Hitting Your Teammates 101 (it proves quite unhelpful, but Eduardo can’t find it within himself to be bothered, Mark’s words ringing through his ears and the memory of his smile blinding behind his eyes).

&&&

They quickly ascertain that there have been no more attempts at infiltrating Facebook, but Sabrina, Mark, and Dave set about installing new privacy features on the site. Even though Eduardo doubts Luke or his employers will make such a brazen move again, he takes Yolanda and Dustin around the office building, reinforcing security and adjusting surveillance. Eduardo makes a note to name his first born child after Chris because that man worked serious magic on the employees, not one of them mentioned one word about the rather dramatic series of events that have played out in front of their eyes for the past weeks (Chris had shaken his head and said quietly to Eduardo, “It’s not me. It’s their loyalty to Mark.” Eduardo’s chest had tightened in a mystifying discord of jealousy and relief, that constant contradiction that has been the undertone of his relationship with Mark. The need to make sure Mark is protected and safe, and the deepest desire to be the only one who can provide that).

After they decide they’re in the clear—at least for the moment—Eduardo basically moves in with Mark. Which Mark is extremely happy about (or so Eduardo assumes since Mark keeps catching his eye and giving him secret smiles, like Harvard but better because now Eduardo can sidle up to Mark and nuzzle his neck or give him a quick kiss on the lips or even just grin like the idiot he knows he is. And Mark will laugh under his breath and turn back to whatever he was doing. And this is the love Eduardo never knew, the happy, gorgeous, worthy-to-be-alive kind of love that he’ll never let go of), except that means Eduardo’s team goes with him so they spend a number of hours rearranging Mark’s house to hold all their equipment and supplies and Yolanda’s hair products. By the end of the day, Yolanda has fallen asleep snuggled between Dustin and Dave on the floor in front of the sofa in Mark’s living room. Dustin keeps nodding his head in sleep and awaking suddenly, only to resume his nodding, and Dave and Chris have fallen into a quiet but intense discussion of world politics or something equally serious and scholarly.

Sabrina reaches for the remote and lowers the volume of the television, leaving the last few scenes of _Timecop_ playing without sound before nodding her head at Eduardo and Mark cuddled together in a chair meant for one (she curled her lip at them in disgust when Eduardo sank into the arm chair that Mark had been occupying earlier that evening). “Would you two mind if you stopped constantly touching each other and joined me in the kitchen for a serious discussion?” she asks, but alights from her chair and walks toward the kitchen before either can answer her.

Mark makes a tsking sound and scowls in her general direction. “If I were to compare her to a farm animal—”

“Mark,” Eduardo pre-empts.

Mark shrugs and splays his hands. “I’m not. I’m just saying, if I were, I don’t think anyone would be offended by it.”

Eduardo sighs and heaves up off the arm chair, stretching his legs and revelling in the overly-warm feeling they possess. “You’ll get used to her.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“You have a lot in common. Both of you have a complete disregard for civil niceties.”

Mark follows Eduardo to the kitchen, clearly unamused. He walks past Eduardo and takes a seat on the kitchen counter beside the fridge, swinging his legs and crossing his arms. He tilts his head expectantly at Sabrina. Sabrina leans against the stove, mirroring Mark’s pose except she stays standing, her legs crossed and hip jutted out in defiance. Eduardo sighs and resolves to stay between the two of them, taking a sit on an actual chair (shocking, yes, to actually use chairs for things like sitting. Who ever thought of it?).

Sabrina glares at Mark and Mark glares at back in condescension for far longer than Eduardo is comfortable with so he finally clears his throat and says, “We were going to discuss something?”

Sabrina turns her head to Eduardo and sighs, uncrossing her arms and placing her hands on the stove behind her. “You’re—” she starts, looks at the ground and clears her throat. Eduardo leans closer, brow furrowed because he knows she’s trying to say something she really doesn’t want to, silently encouraging her. “You’re,” she starts again, twisting her mouth and breathing deeply before continuing. “So I assume you’re staying. With Zuckerberg. After this mission is over.” She shifts her eyes and locks in on Mark. “Right?”

Mark stills his legs and gives her a slight nod of acknowledgement. “If that’s what Wardo wants.”

“It’s what I want,” Eduardo confirms quickly.

Sabrina nods thoughtfully, not surprised. She contemplates Mark for a few tense moments before saying with a deadly calm, “If you hurt him again, I will destroy you.”

Mark keeps her gaze and says quietly but with an intensity that shakes Eduardo, “If I hurt him again, you won’t have to destroy me.”

Sabrina seems satisfied with his answer and even cracks half a smile at him. “Good.” She turns back to Eduardo. “Have you talked to the director yet? This isn’t exactly the kind of job where you put in your two weeks’ notice.”

Eduardo frowns and scratches his neck. “Yeah, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Or the team, actually. I tried to tell the director but he wasn’t available.”

Sabrina’s eyes narrow. “As in he was in a meeting and you chickened out—”

“As in off on a mission,” Eduardo supplies.

Sabrina takes in a sharp breath. “Shit.”

Mark tilts his head in confusion. “And this is bad because?”

Eduardo runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Because the director is our handler on the case, and this _is_ his mission. So either he doesn’t trust us and has taken matters into his own hands.”

“Or he’s part of the problem,” Sabrina finishes, voicing the nagging doubt they’ve all been thinking for the past few weeks but none of them wanted to acknowledge.

“Either way, we can’t count on the agency anymore. We’re officially cutting off contact with them.” Eduardo blows out a long breath. “Shit, I’m going to miss their database.”

Mark scoffs and hops off the counter. “I run Facebook, Wardo. I control more information than they could ever dream of.”

Eduardo stares at Mark, his mouth half open in shock. “You’d let us use your system?”

Mark shrugs. “If you need it.”

“We need it.”

“Okay, then.”

Eduardo lets out a half laugh, a little giddy that Mark trusts him this much, and wonders how he ever let so many years go by hating this wonderful, amazing man. “I love you.”

Mark smirks. “I know.”

Sabrina sneers at them, clearly disgusted. “Ugh, did you just quote _Star Wars_ to declare your love for each other?”

“Yup,” Eduardo answers, grinning stupidly at Mark.

“That movie is officially ruined for me, I hope you know. Luke didn’t ruin it but you guys just did. I’ll kick your ass for this.”

Eduardo ignores her and swivels back and forth in his chair, unable to contain his happiness. “Wanna make out?” he asks Mark.

Mark nods and smiles. “Yup.”

&&&

Eduardo heads to San Francisco with Dave and Hugo to confer with the Twitter team about their new strategy. Yolanda volunteers (quite a but too willingly) to go with Sabrina to the Facebook offices while Eduardo is away. Eduardo prefers to remain ignorant of what she does but he gathers from Sabrina that it involves Dustin, the CIA’s operative in Facebook who may or may not be against them, and an entire box of matches. Eduardo sighs and hands his phone to Dave when Sabrina turns quickly from explaining to ranting. If Dave’s horrified exclamations are anything to go by, Eduardo is content that he made the right decision.

The trip lasts three days and after B reams Eduardo out for his “idiotic, ridiculous, completely unprofessional behaviour, this is _not_ a James Bond film” (Eduardo would beg to differ; he’s been playing the Bond Theme in his head for weeks now), they come to an understanding that they’re in this together until they figure out if they can trust the director.

“Our sources tell us there’s going to be a meet up between our mole and their handler next weekend at the TWNNPH Society’s biannual charity event,” B explains to Eduardo in hushed tones.

Eduardo blinks at her. “What’s the TWNNPH Society?”

She stares back at him blankly. “You don’t know?” He shakes his head and she rolls her eyes. “Typical. Regardless, your Luke was on the guest list under the alias Benjamin Foley. Several Twitter employees are invited but we’ve narrowed our list down to five possible suspects for our mole.” She flickers her eyes to Eduardo and adds disdainfully, “We like to do things a little more subtly than you.”

Eduardo bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting that at least he found his mole. And he also gets to have sex with a hot billionaire. Somehow he doesn’t think she would care too much about that aspect of his life.

“I don’t,” she answers back and Eduardo remembers that she’s a fucking psychic or something and stops trying to imagine Mark naked in his head just in case she can see images as well as read his mind.

Dave reminds Eduardo to pick up gifts for everyone, which Eduardo blanches at. “We’re a day trip away. Day trips do not require souvenirs.”

“We stayed overnight. Overnight means a gift.”

Eduardo stares at him.

Dave shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. “At least a postcard.”

“You are all ridiculous.”

Dave smiles shyly and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “We’re dysfunctional, like every good family.”

Eduardo sighs but a smile sneaks through. “Fine, play the family card.”

When they return to Palo Alto, trunk of the car full of presents, they find Yolanda staring blankly at the television, flipping through the channels in a steady beat of three-second intervals.

Eduardo tilts his head. “What are you doing here? It’s four in the afternoon, shouldn’t you be at the office?”

“Got kicked out.” She swivels her head away from the television towards Eduardo and Dave but keeps her pace with the remote. “Did you bring me something?”

“Told you,” Dave supplies.

Eduardo ignores Dave and takes a seat on the sofa arm, rubbing his temple. “Why did you get kicked out?”

“Do you really want to know or do you want me to lie?”

“Lie! Please, please lie,” Dave interjects, eyes widening by the second. “I can’t handle any more stress, please.”

“There were far too many puppies and cupcakes, we were all barfing rainbows. I was asked to leave because I’m like pure sunshine and it was blinding everyone.” Yolanda smiles at Dave. “That good?”

“No, not really,” he answers before turning around. “I’m getting my laptop and I’m ignoring all of you until tonight.”

“I missed you, Davey-poo!” Yolanda calls after him. She swivels her head to Eduardo. “So, what did you get me?”

“A pony.”

“Is it pink and sparkly?”

“It’s made of the purest fairy dust available.”

Yolanda giggles and throws the remote on the coffee table. “I’m glad you’re back. Mark’s been really grumpy and sulking and it stops being amusing after like three minutes.”

Eduardo smiles. “That shouldn’t make me happy.”

“But it does.”

“Yeah, it does.” He sinks onto the sofa, pushing Yolanda’s feet out of the way. “When did I get so stupid, Landa?”

“Oh honey. You’ve always been this stupid. You’ve just never been this happy.”

“Huh.”

Yolanda grins at him. “Yeah, huh.” She pushes her feet into his lap. “I think my brilliant insight deserves a foot rub.”

He picks her ankle up between two fingers and pushes her off. “Sorry, didn’t you hear? I’ve got a boyfriend now, my massages are reserved for him.”

“Please, like he’s not the one itching to get his hands all over you. _You_ get all the massages.” She pushes her foot back. “Gimme a foot rub, asshole.”

“He’s really jealous and controls half of the modern world.”

Yolanda kicks Eduardo in tiny pokes with her feet. “Stingy.”

“Shameless.”

“Gimme, gimme, gimme,” she whines but Eduardo laughs and fends off her feet.

When Yolanda finally gives up (and it takes her a while, the little brat), they stare blankly at the television before Eduardo lulls his head against the headrest in boredom. “Wanna spar?”

Yolanda glances towards Mark’s vast backyard and shrugs. “Okay.” She rolls off the sofa, landing on her stomach on the floor with a loud _oof_. “I might be slightly out of practice.” She lifts her arm in the air. “Up.”

Eduardo chuckles but finally pulls her up when she starts waving said arm back and forth. “How have I let you slack off so much?”

“Hey! I am the team engineer. Combat is not part of my job description.”

“You’re a spy. It’s implied.”

“Bah!”

They step out into the yard and Eduardo toes off his shoes, cracking his knuckles against the ground. Yolanda does elaborate and highly ineffectual stretches that she gathered from her years of watching martial arts movies.

“Basic rules?” he asks, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up his arms.

She nods. “No biting, no scratching, no insulting each other’s mother unless they really deserve it.” She pulls her hair back and up into a ponytail. “And most importantly—”

“Don’t damage the merchandise,” he finishes for her, gesturing to his face.

“I kinda meant _my_ face.”

“It was meant for both our faces.”

Yolanda shrugs. “Whatever.”

She throws the first punch because Eduardo is a gentleman like that (not that he’d ever tell Sabrina that because, well, he’s not a complete idiot). The niceties end there, though, and he quickly loses himself in the rush of power and adrenaline that sings through his body, working on instinct and that almost superhuman ability of foresight, blocking targeted fists and swiping feet in a lithe dance full of destructive power. He focuses on tiring Yolanda out rather than immobilizing her because he knows her weakness. But she knows Eduardo’s weaknesses and she outwits him, catching his arm a few times and twisting it around painfully until he gives in.

They’re both so involved in their battle that they don’t notice when Mark and Sabrina arrive at the house until Sabrina lets out a sharp, piercing whistle and shouts, “You two done slapping at each other? I need Yolanda to fix my injector.”

Eduardo and Yolanda stop mid-step and Eduardo almost loses his balance. He arches his back and manages to stay upright but Yolanda tumbles to the ground. She pouts and rubs her backside. “Ow.”

“Yolanda, injector, now!” Sabrina demands, walking briskly towards them.

“I’m hurt, Rina! Can I have some ice cream?”

Sabrina reaches them, nods briefly at Eduardo, and pulls Yolanda up. “We don’t pay you to eat ice cream.”

Yolanda sighs and allows Sabrina to tug her away. “I’m sure someone would be more than happy to pay me to eat ice cream.”

Eduardo chuckles and turns to the patio door, smiling when he sees Mark looking at him, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket and chin tilted up and slightly to the right. Eduardo waves before jogging up to meet him at the door. “Hey,” he says, trying to catch his breath. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, sticky from sweating so much and dips down to kiss Mark. “Missed you.”

Mark runs his hands up Eduardo’s chest and circles them around his neck, tugging him down for another kiss, this time much longer and intense than before. Eduardo makes a startled noise but it settles into a moan and he leans into Mark, loving the feel of his long fingers (cold and precise) sinking into his hair. “M-Mark,” he attempts to say but Mark is dragging Eduardo into the house and up the stairs to their bedroom.

“I want, I want—” Mark finally says, moving his lips down Eduardo’s neck. “I just—” He backs Eduardo into the hallway wall a few feet from their bedroom, teeth scraping Eduardo’s collarbone.

“Fuck,” Eduardo breaths, hands settling on Mark’s hips and tugging him closer, closer, as close as he can. “Why aren’t you naked yet?”

Mark laughs, low and rumbling and far too arousing to be a laugh (seriously, Eduardo should _not_ be so turned on by the sound of Mark’s laughter but then again, everything Mark is a turn-on for Eduardo). “Why are you so hot when you’re fighting?” His fingers leave Eduardo’s hair and start to quickly undo Eduardo’s shirt buttons.

Eduardo kisses his way up Mark’s jaw line and sinks his teeth lightly into his earlobe. “I’m always hot.”

Mark rolls his eyes and pushes him into the bedroom, finally getting his shirt completely undone. His eyes follow the lines on Eduardo’s chest, pupils blown with desire and an emotion Eduardo wants to believe is love. “Why do you wear dress shirts for _everything_?”

Eduardo scoffs as he works Mark’s hoodie over his head. “I don’t wear them for _everything_.” He runs his palms down Mark’s bare chest, idling on his nipples to rub them between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’ve seen you clean the bathroom in one,” Mark gasps out before sucking a hickey into the side of Eduardo’s neck.

Eduardo shuts his eyes and moans, low and throaty, arching his neck to give Mark better access. “There—oh fuck Mark—there weren’t any other shirts around and the bathroom needed cleaning.”

Mark backs Eduardo onto the bed and kisses down his stomach, undoing his belt and dragging his pants down. “You could have borrowed one of my shirts.”

Eduardo thunks his head against the mattress and squeezes his eyes shut when he feels Mark’s breath hot and moist against his left thigh. “They smell like you.”

“So?” Mark places his hands on Eduardo’s ankles and pulls them apart slowly.

“So I don’t want to clean the bathroom with a hard on.”

Mark pops his head up and smirks at Eduardo (Eduardo knows he’s smirking before he opens his eyes but it’s so much more enthralling when he can see it, those lips red and wet from Eduardo’s attentions tilted up and to the left, Mark’s eyes alight with arrogance and something more pure, something like joy). “You get turned on by wearing my clothes?”

Eduardo sighs and nods.

“Good to know.”

Eduardo wants to retort and maybe recover some dignity but then Mark’s mouth is on his cock and all thoughts of dignity are completely erased from his mind (all thoughts are erased from his mind, actually, expect for _ohfuckohfuckohfuck_ and _MarkMarkMarkMark_ and _Ilovemyboyfriendsofuckingmuch_ ) and all he can focus on is Mark’s mouth and his hands clutching the sheets beneath him.

When they’re finally out of energy (for the time being) and stop going at each other like rabbits (according to Sabrina, since apparently Mark’s bedroom is not sound proof) Eduardo grins at Mark from beside him in the bed.

“What?” Mark asks, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

“Nothing. I’m just happy.” He reaches for Mark’s hand and entwines their fingers together.

“Oh.” Mark stares at their joined hands (eyes focused with that single-minded intensity that Eduardo has memorized alongside running to the Kirkland dorms as the first snow of winter starts to fall and Dustin’s succinct rendition of the opening scene of _Back to the Future_ ). “Me, uh. Me too.”

“Hmm?” Eduardo returns back to the present, old memories and past feelings vanishing from his mind.

“I’m happy, too.”

Eduardo smiles softly and rubs Mark’s hand with his thumb. “Yeah.”

Mark tilts his lips, the ghost of a smile he rarely shows (the ghost of an emotion he rarely allows himself to feel). “Yeah.”

&&&

It isn’t difficult to arrange for Eduardo and his team to be placed on the guest list for the charity event (of which Eduardo _still_ doesn’t know which society is hosting it but Chris has assured him it is worthy). Sabrina takes Yolanda and Dave up to San Francisco to set up base and surveillance with the Twitter team and Eduardo sticks around to keep an eye on Facebook.

He spends his days at the office, chatting with Chris and Dustin and helping the financial and marketing teams meet pressing deadlines. It isn’t long before he notices that Mark’s not the only one with a gang of minions who idolize him; Eduardo gains quite a following of his own. Several interns and long-time employees come up to Eduardo to ask for his advice, to discuss a current topic in economics, and sometimes to even bounce ideas off of him for projects in Facebook. It feels like he’s really a part of Facebook, of this site, this phenomenon that he helped create (and he remembers that this site wouldn’t _be here_ if it weren’t for him. Not in this state, not in this form. There would always be innovation, Mark would always have been successful, he knows this with that superhuman knowledge that resonates deep in his heart, pumping out through his veins and circling his body. But he was there. He made Mark just that much more unstoppable. He was the cauldron where Mark mixed his magic and maybe he was a little bit magical himself). It’s that exhilarating feeling he felt the first night he met Christy, when he was _recognized_ as someone special, someone important (and maybe that’s another reason he stayed with Christy long after he realized she was crazy; there was always that association between her and being someone). Except this time he doesn’t have to correct them, doesn’t have to justify his involvement in Facebook. This time they know and they admire him and he knows he shouldn’t place so much importance in how others see him (and he doesn’t, not like when he was nineteen. Though he is still Eduardo Saverin and that entails a little bit of vanity, okay?) but it’s a heady feeling nonetheless (not as heady as the feeling that shoots down his spine when Mark rolls his head back and stops typing while Eduardo’s sucking his cock in his office but that’s going off topic).

Eduardo’s still not sure what he’s going to do with his life (or even what he _can_ do after he’s lived life as an agent of the CIA for the past several years) but he thinks that maybe coming to a conclusion right this moment isn’t as important as he once thought it to be (and maybe he’s earned the right to stay and rest and _be_. Maybe he can feel proud of who he is, not for what he does or how many success stories he has to his name or where he’s going to end up. Maybe he can feel proud for himself, basic and bare, and all that entails—ridiculous hair that stands up on end, his eager smile that he has never been able to contain and has long grown tired of trying to cage, his faith in the ones he loves, and his earnest thirst for _life_ —if only for a little while. It’s actually not so world-ending as he once thought it to be, he discovers).

It’s late afternoon before the charity dinner and Eduardo is sitting half-dressed in an undershirt and his tuxedo pants, his button-up shirt open and his bowtie hanging loose and undone around his neck, going over the guest list one more time. He’s been sitting at his desk (he has a desk now at Mark’s place. His place. Their place, yeah, that’s it) for the last hour, memorizing faces and mapping out routes, eyes flickering between the various pieces of paper and other forms of media he has spread out across the hard surface in a seemingly haphazard fashion. He feels a familiar rush of anticipation pacing through his veins, not quite adrenaline—not quite as urgent and exhilarating—but a slight quickening in his breath, a smug set to his smile (because he _knows_. He knows he’s _got_ this).

He can hear Mark muttering in the bedroom a few feet away, complaining mostly to himself but deliberately loud enough for Eduardo to hear how ridiculous and constricting a black tie dress code is.

“Who even wears these things? And why do I need so many layers? Are we eating outdoors?”

“I thought you liked the idea of fashion,” Eduardo quips, unable to resist.

“I like the idea of being comfortable.”

“You totally missed my joke there,” Eduardo calls, craning his head to project his voice better.

Mark scoffs. “Yeah, I got it. It wasn’t funny.” A pause. “And it wasn’t a joke.”

“I thought it was funny.”

“There wasn’t even a punchline.”

“Hmm,” Eduardo sounds, returning to his iPad.

Mark curses fluently and with much more venom than is necessary. Eduardo flicks his eyes toward the bedroom. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”

“It is.” Eduardo can _hear_ Mark’s scowl.

“You wore a suit for our date,” he reminds Mark, smiling a little at the memory.

“I was trying to get laid,” Mark calls back.

“What if I guaranteed you’d get laid tonight?”

Mark scoffs again. “Like that was ever in question.”

Eduardo’s mouth gapes open and he stares indignantly at the wall that blocks Mark from his view. Eduardo continues to stare, affronted, until Mark calls his name.

“Wardo.”

Eduardo refuses to respond with anything but more indignant staring.

“Wardo?”

More indignation.

“I’m not going to pretend your aren’t easy.” Eduardo can hear the exaggerated eye roll that follows.

“I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” Eduardo decides, frowning with fierce determination down at the guest list on his desk.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m dead serious. Not even a kiss.” Eduardo’s quite sure he sounds convincing but if Mark’s disinterest and lack of further response is anything to go by, Eduardo’s doing a very poor job of it. But he’s not going to sleep with Mark tonight. No way, not happening. Even if he’s on a mission tonight. Even if missions build up an excess of energy and excitement that Eduardo usually dispels through excessive drinking, excessive exercising, or excessive sex. Even if Mark’s walking out of the bedroom, clad in a form-fitting tuxedo, looking suave and dominating and oh-so-very-delectable, a smug smirk affixed on his lips. Nope, not even then. (Eduardo’s going to die tonight, he’s sure of it.)

Mark breathes out an amused chuckle and tilts his head in that way that is entirely too arrogant and attractive to be humanly possible. “You were saying?”

Eduardo blinks and somehow remembers how to close his jaw before he literally starts drooling. He snaps his head to his desk and gathers his iPad and a few other random papers that he’s not even sure if he needs. “I’m going downstairs.”

Mark laughs but Eduardo ignores him and races to the stairs.

“I’m gonna die tonight. It’s that simple,” he mutters to himself, taking the stairs two at a time. He heads to the kitchen, throws his armful of miscellaneous papers and electronics onto the table and grabs an ice-cold water bottle from the fridge. He takes several large gulps before his brows contract in pain and he clenches his teeth together. “It’s okay, I can do this. I did it for years. I can do this.”

There’s an abrupt knock on the sliding pane glass doors that lead out into the yard and Eduardo jumps. He creeps quickly and quietly to the doors and peeks through the side of the curtains that block the fading light of dusk from the kitchen. He frowns deeply when he sees Ned (of all people) kneeling low to the ground and up against the side of the house, motioning with his hands for Eduardo to let him in.

Eduardo unlocks the door and lets Ned in. “What—”

Ned places a finger over his lips and hushes, “Shh!” He quickly recloses the curtains and motions for Eduardo to follow him to the hall where there are no windows.

Eduardo follows. “What’s going on?” he whispers, not wanting to alarm Mark before he knows what he should be alarmed about.

“Have you checked the house for bugs?” Ned responds, ignoring Eduardo’s inquiry.

“Several times.”

“Do you have any of your own surveillance?”

Eduardo quirks an eyebrow and frowns. “Why?”

Ned scans the hallway before stepping closer to Eduardo. “I need to speak with you but there can be absolutely no chance of us being overheard.”

Eduardo takes a step back, slightly affronted. “My team has the only access to the feeds. And I trust them with my life.”

“Nothing is one hundred percent hack proof,” Ned responds, his brows furrowing. He looks serious, far more serious than Eduardo has ever seen him before and it makes him uneasy (because Ned is Ned and he should be joking and laughing and making up more stories about his fictitious daughters). “Turn it off.”

Eduardo’s mind stalls, momentarily blank, unable to process what he’s being told. He wants to follow orders, and yet there’s a part of his mind that’s voicing the very real concern that he should never, ever turn his surveillance off at anyone’s request, even your most trusted ally. “Wh—”

“Please, Eduardo, turn it off for five minutes.”

“My team will be alarmed.”

“And you can reassure them in five minutes.”

Eduardo takes in a short breath, eyes focusing on Ned’s face (so familiar and strange, the same face that pulled him from the black hole his life had been, that saved him from floating through his years, lost and alone, that brought him back here, to Mark, to where he belongs). His eyes, a greenish sort of grey, are wide and urging Eduardo to just _trust me_ (the same way Dustin’s pleaded with him before he stormed out that night it rained in California). He pulls out his phone and taps the screen until he finds his remote for the surveillance. He looks back up at Ned, back to his eyes saying _trustmetrustme_ (the same way Sabrina’s asked him to let her take care of that group of would-be assassins in Athens on their first mission together). He slides his thumb to the OFF option, hovering, two sides of doubt warring in his mind because he doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know the future and Mark is upstairs and Ned’s eyes are asking him to trustmetrustmetrustme.

He brings his thumb down to touch the cool screen of his phone and watches the OFF button highlight for a split second before the screen goes back to his main menu. “It’s off,” he confirms softly, almost uncertainly (because he’s still not sure who he should trust and when, and maybe he never will).

Ned nods and tugs Eduardo closer with a hand on his arm. Eduardo doesn’t break free from his grasp but plants his feet firmly so Ned can’t move him anymore than he has. “Have you heard from the director lately?”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Not a word in weeks.”

“I don’t want to alarm you, but it’s has gotten far too suspicious. I think Harold’s part of this whole plot against Facebook and Twitter. He’s been acting strange for the last few weeks and now he’s suddenly disappeared, his bank accounts cleared out.”

Eduardo nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah, my team and the Twitter team came to the same conclusion.”

Ned sighs and rubs his cheek in an exaggerated motion. “I never thought it’d be Harold.”

“My team is set up to catch the Twitter mole and their contact at a gala tonight. I was just about to go—”

Ned shakes his head. “He won’t be there. Harold would never expose his plans in such a careless manner.”

Eduardo furrows his brow and paces a few feet, trying to think. “What are we going to do? My team’s in San Francisco. _Everyone’s_ in San Francisco.”

Ned cocks his head up and grins, wide and thrilling and like a Cheshire cat (too wide and too brilliant and it sends alarms through Eduardo’s blood, disturbing little pings and pricks on his skin). “We’ll just have to find him ourselves. Come on, I have my car outside, and I have a pretty good idea where he might be hiding.”

Ned heads to the door (the front door, which is odd since he had seemed so keen on secrecy and privacy before) but Eduardo doesn’t follow. He frowns deeply and calls to Ned, “Why did you come here, if you know where he is?”

Ned stops and peers over his shoulder at Eduardo, slight irritation hastily hidden in his eyes. “I needed backup. I was expecting Sabrina to be here as well. She would be very valuable. But I work with what I have, right?” He turns fully to Eduardo. “Look, it isn’t ideal but we have to move quickly. Who knows when he’ll make his next move? And we don’t want to lose track of Luke again, do we? Trust me.”

And Ned’s eyes are pleading with Eduardo again, trustmetrustmetrustme (the same way Sean’s answered his across the table at a restaurant far too pretentious to for a first meeting) and Eduardo wants to go, to get the director and Luke and eliminate every possible threat to Mark’s world and to their happiness.

Eduardo nods and starts to follow Ned, their footsteps heavy and almost echoing through the empty quiet of the house (it’s quiet, so quiet, why is it so quiet?). He feels adrenaline starting to pump through his veins, quickening his pace and his mind, thoughts and strategies and checklists flying through at an alarming pace (he has to call Sabrina, does he have any backup ammo in his pockets, why is it so quiet, he should tell Mark he’s leaving, it’s so quiet, he’s going to punch Luke right in the face and it’s going to feel so fucking awesome, it’s quiet like death, why the fuck is it so quiet, how did Ned know that Luke was the mole, it’s quiet because Mark hasn’t made a sound in the last ten minutes, Mark is upstairs, Mark _was_ upstairs but now it’s quiet, quiet like death, Ned _knows about Luke_ , _where is Mark?_ ).

Eduardo comes to an abrupt stop and spins on his heel, racing toward the stairs. He registers vaguely that Ned is following close behind him but he continues up the stairs. “Mark. Mark!”

There is no answer and that spikes more panic in Eduardo, his mind going blank, his heart drumming _nonononono_ against his ribs, a painful rhythm he thought he knew but could never have imagined would be this engulfing. “Mark!”

He’s halted by a hand on his arm and for a split second relief floods through him because he thinks it’s Mark and all his fears were stupid and imagined and he’ll have a lot of explaining to do about how stupid he was but it’ll be okay because Mark will be there and Mark will be okay. But just as soon as he tastes sweet relief, the panic returns because it’s not Mark’s hand on his arm, it’s Ned’s.

“Wardo, stop! What are you doing?”

“Where’s Mark?” Eduardo takes a step down on the stairs but still remains hovering over Ned. His eyes are furious, his mouth contorted and he says in a low, strained voice that promises great pain, “What the fuck did you do to him?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“How do you know about Luke?” Eduardo demands wrenching his arm from Ned’s grasp and grabbing his collar, hauling him up. “How do you know about him unless _you_ are his accomplice?”

Ned sighs dramatically. “You couldn’t make this easy, could you?”

“Where’s Mark?” His hands tighten on Ned’s collar and he squeezes, constricting Ned’s throat just enough to make breathing difficult.

Ned manages to laugh, a strained, wheezy sound. “I’d say Luke took him hostage about ten minutes ago.”

Eduardo swears and releases Ned, turning to race upstairs because this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. Mark is upstairs, sitting at his laptop, hands flying over the keys. (He has to be. After all they went through, after all these years, after everything, it can’t end like this, not like this.)

But Ned is quicker than him and he feels Ned grab his wrist and pull him back, using the momentum to hurl Eduardo down the stairs. Eduardo lands on his back, the air in his lungs rushing through his lips in a sharp blast. He moves his mouth, struggling to get oxygen back into his lungs (to get Mark back into his life, to get everything back in its place), short, gasping, painful pulls of his muscles but the air isn’t coming, it isn’t coming back (Mark is never coming back, this is the end).

Ned is kneeling over him and he wants to reach up, to smash his head into the floor, to crack his neck, to kill him in any of the hundreds of methods he’s been trained in, to do what he _knows_ , what he’s good at, something. But Eduardo can’t move (he can’t even breathe, can’t even protect what he loves so dearly) and Ned is sighing dramatically again, using his revolver to poke at Eduardo’s side.

“You just couldn’t make this easy, could you?” He pouts and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “But that’s alright, I suppose you have a right to fight back—or at least try. I’ll think up something else, like I always do.” He smiles then and it’s gentle and practiced but Eduardo can see the malice behind it now, can feel the betrayal that he should always have known was lurking just under the surface of Ned’s warm façade. “I’m quite the genius, you know. My daughter Cindy takes after me in that regard.”

Eduardo hears Ned’s gun click and he tries to move, tries to avoid the oncoming bullet but he’s paralyzed (through fear or the shock his body is still recovering from after his fall, he doesn’t know, though it doesn’t really matter now, does it?). He closes his eyes because he doesn’t want Ned’s face to be the last one he sees (he’s supposed to see Mark in the cereal aisle of the supermarket, valiantly defending his choice in sugary breakfast foods). He tries to bring back the image of Mark that night but his mind won’t cooperate (because this isn’t the end), draining away his doubts and fears and self-reproach (why did he turn off the cameras? Why didn’t he see what was right in front of him? Why didn’t he know the future with perfect certainty?) until he is reduced to one thought, one purpose, one ultimate end (reduced down to his point of origin and he knows he can never fade from this world until he secures Mark’s safety).

He feels the beat of his heart in his chest, once, twice, three times and he rears up, grabbing Ned’s face in his hands and bringing him down with all the strength he can muster. He doesn’t have much leverage but he manages to break the bastard’s nose with a very satisfying _smack_.

Ned curses low in his throat and scrambles for a hold on Eduardo. They struggle, Ned reaching for his gun again and Eduardo trying to retrieve the one strapped to his leg. Before either can get the upper hand, or even draw their guns at each other, a shot sounds through the room, muffled severely by a silencer.

Ned slumps to the floor, slightly over Eduardo’s body. Eduardo scrambles out from under him and draws his gun, quickly pivoting his back to a nearby wall and scanning the room for the new shooter.

The director emerges from around the corner, tucking his gun by his side and crouching to turn Ned’s body onto his back.

“Director? Did you kill him?” Eduardo asks, gun still pointed in their direction (uncertain whether he’ll have to use it on Ned or even the director).

Harold ignores him and begins to tie Ned’s arms and legs together, using quick and efficient movements of his hands to secure the agent to the stairway.

“You killed him, oh shit, he’s dead and only he knew where Luke took Mark. Do you realize what you’ve fucking done?” Eduardo’s voice is rising, loud and thin with his building panic (Mark, Mark, where are you, markmarkmarkmark).

The director raises his head and tries to suppress an eye roll (he’s wildly unsuccessful but at least he _did_ try). “Don’t be so dramatic.” He nods to his gun. “It’s a tranquilizer. I have a few questions I’d like him to answer.”

Eduardo steps forward, both hands gripping his gun. “Just whose side are you on, _Director_?”

The director stands and crosses his arms, managing to look extremely disapproving. “We can have the conversation now, over the unconscious body of a former agent of the CIA, wasting precious time and let you fuck this mission up even more than I thought you possibly could. _Or_ we could find out where your boyfriend’s been taken, and possibly save this mission and both of our asses. Your choice.”

Eduardo lowers his gun and places it back into the strap on his calf. “Where did Luke take Mark?”

“Hell if I know.”

Eduardo lunges forward and grabs Harold by his collar, shaking him with as much strength as he can muster (which isn’t very much since half of his normal power is put to use trying to stop his hands and legs and entire body from trembling in fear). “I’m not very rational right now, Director. Tell me what you know _now_.”

Harold frowns and places a hand over Eduardo’s, tapping. “I just had this shirt dry cleaned, you know.”

“Where the fuck is Mark?”

“There’s a reason why you aren’t supposed to sleep with the target, Saverin.” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “This is why.”

“Mark is not the fucking target. Mark is the man I love.”

Harold’s face softens slightly before his dispassionate mask shifts back into place. “Love, Saverin?”

“With all my being.”

He sighs and pulls out his phone, spinning it between his thumb and middle finger. “I might have placed a tracker on Luke’s car.”

Eduardo lets out a sigh, heavy but hopeful. He releases Harold, grabs his keys and races out the door. “Let’s go.”

“And during the ride, we can discuss your _highly_ inappropriate conduct, how you compromised the entire mission, and how _this isn’t a fucking James Bond movie_ ,” Harold sneers, sliding into the passenger’s seat in Eduardo’s Audi.

“It has similarities to a James Bo—”

“Shut up and drive, only I get to talk.”

&&&

Eduardo drives recklessly, taking turns too sharply and skidding past other cars and semi-trucks. He barely registers where he is or where he’s heading, all he feels is his hand on the steering wheel, all he sees is the flashing light on Harold’s phone that tracks Luke and Mark. He vaguely hears the director complaining, first about his unprofessional behavior, but it quickly bleeds into how ridiculous it is for Eduardo to have an Audi, do you know how much this monstrosity cost the government? You’ve never even used the laser, have you?

Eduardo tries to absorb himself in small things, in the hum of the engine as he presses his foot (heavy and dull) onto the gas, in knowing just the right moment to shift his hands to make the corner (leather growing hot under his hands, fingers sliding, sliding, sliding before they tighten and yank the wheel to the left, tires squealing in protest but the steady hum of the engine signalling it’s fine, it’s okay). He tries to clear his mind like he’s been trained. He tries to look at this objectively, he tries to plan and strategize (but that’s never been his forte anyway. He’s always been a jumble of emotional decisions and split second errors. It’s why he made so many mistakes and why he survived them all).

He tries to do anything and everything in his power to get himself under control (because this isn’t just another mission. This isn’t just him screwing up. This is _Mark_ and he knows with heavy certainty that he will never recover if anything happens to Mark. This is far worse than a nightmare. This is the reality he always deluded himself into believing wasn’t true).

Harold is on the phone with Sabrina and the team. They’re heading back to Palo Alto but it won’t be soon enough (not enough, never enough. It’s just Eduardo and Harold and he prays that will be all they need).

“Saverin!” Sabrina yells through the phone, Harold apparently placed the device on speaker.

Eduardo opens his lips to answer but his throat is too dry and he finds that no sound comes out. He swallows and tries again. “Rina?”

“Saverin, I know you’re freaking out but you have to calm the fuck down.”

Eduardo shakes his head, realizing belatedly that Sabrina can’t see him. “He has Mark,” he supplies, hoping the desperation in his voice is enough to convince Sabrina of the severity of the situation.

“And Mark has you.”

“What?”

“Luke took Mark, but Mark isn’t hopeless. Mark has _you_. Are you going to be there for him and man up and calm the _fuck_ down, or are you going to panic and abandon him again?”

Eduardo’s hands tighten on the steering wheel again. “I can’t screw this up, Rina. This isn’t just another mission—”

“And that’s why you have to be everything you fucking you know are. You can do this.”

Eduardo’s eyes widen and he swallows slowly before he allows the panic to subside and chilling calm creeps through his blood. “Thank you, Rina.”

“I can’t wait until you retire, you asshole,” is her response but he can hear the smile in her voice. “Now, you’re coming up to a storage facility. According to the director’s tracking device, Luke stopped there about three minutes ago. I hacked into a few video feeds in the area and from what I can tell, he has four goons posted outside.”

Sabrina details what she has gleaned from the video feeds (Luke arrived with a very-much-alive Mark and they’ve been holed up in the building since). Eduardo stops the car about a block away from the building and quickly retrieves the ammo hidden under his seat. Harold reaches for the gear stick and Eduardo furrows his brow. Harold twists the top off and pulls out a short metal stick that looks almost like a lightsaber.

“Wha—”

“It’s your fucking laser that cost the government an extra ten thousand dollars,” Harold answers before Eduardo can complete his question. He slips it into his suit jacket pocket. “And I intend to put the taxpayers’ money to good use.”

Eduardo is torn between pointing out very maturely (whining) that Harold totally ruined the fun of finding out where it was hidden and wanting to snatch it away and play _Star Wars_. He settles for a quick, “That’s mine.”

Harold glares at him and exits the car.

They reach the storage facility quickly, feet silent on the gravel parking lot, and crouch behind a series of cars.

“There are at least three guards that I can see and they’re heavily armed,” Eduardo notes, both to Harold and for Sabrina’s benefit (he placed the phone in his pocket but Sabrina made him swear to keep her on speaker). “If I go in on the right and you on the left we should be able to take care of—”

Harold draws his gun and pats Eduardo on the back. “I’ll take care of them. You go get Luke.”

Eduardo frowns. “Director, you haven’t had hand-to-hand combat in years—”

“I am fully capable of taking care of a few useless guards.” He cracks his neck. “Let me have a little fun, I’ll catch up with you in a couple minutes.”

Eduardo searches Harold’s eyes for a moment, trying to find a reason to doubt his words. Finally, he nods and smiles. “Thank you, Director.”

“You owe me,” he says before he stands and saunters to the guards. He waves at them with a cheery flick of his wrist. “Hey, fellas!”

Eduardo creeps around the cars while the director draws the guards’ attention. He slips into the large building, the door making a loud metallic click behind him as it closes. The sound echoes through the maze of storage units, traveling down dark corridors, recoiling off the units with decreasing intensity. He scans the area quickly as he runs up the stairs, praying fervently that he can find Mark, that Mark is safe, that he can put an end to this nightmare.

He worries that Luke will be well concealed but apparently he had no need to be so concerned because it isn’t long before he hears sharp, echoing footsteps pacing in the corridor to his left. He flattens his body to the cold metal containers (back straight and rigid and tensing against the indentions of the unit). He fights to unlock his knees, to loosen his limbs and bring them under his full control (fear and instinct and training all warring against each other until he cannot distinguish a single clear thought). He reminds himself that he’s a spy, a soldier (a coward, a failure); every role he’s ever played flashes through his mind and creeps through his blood. He tries to cling to all his experience and knowledge, everything he’s been taught (but looking back has always been his downfall. It’s the future and uncertainty that lays the best traps, taunting and mocking him and beckoning him forward, daring him to believe, to take that leap).

“…think for one second this was ever a good idea, your intellectual capacity is far below what you estimate it at,” Mark condescends, anger vibrating low and deadly in his tone.

It’s the sound of that familiar voice, strong and clear and brilliantly ruthless that stills his mind, a second, then two, and he’s able to stop (stop breathing, stop thinking, stop beating his heart that thrums _markmarkmark_ , like rebooting a computer, like starting anew, like clearing his data and returning to his point of origin). He straightens his free hand from the useless fist it made against the now-warm metal behind his back and brings it down to his thigh. He presses two fingers into the flesh of his upper thigh and breathes out a sigh of relief when his legs respond, unlocking and bowing to his control yet again. He points his gun to the ground and unlocks the safety—ready to aim straight into Luke’s heart—and rounds the corner.

His eyes immediately take in the scene in front of him. Mark is sitting, leaning against a storage unit, his hands and ankles tied by plastic binding, hands behind his back and his knees drawn up slightly. He taps his bound feet in unison, impatience and annoyance radiating with his every muscle twitch. He’s glaring at Luke like he glares at everyone who puts him through hell when they have no foot to stand on. For a split second, Eduardo flashes back to the deposition table, the Winklevii and Divya caught in a staring match with Mark while he stood uselessly in the corner, pouring water because he needed something to do, something to keep his hands busy (something to keep Mark from looking across the room at him and asking, telling, joking, mocking, all manner of communicating with him through eyes alone, because he didn’t get to do that anymore. Mark didn’t _get_ that anymore). This time Eduardo doesn’t have to hold himself back from coming to Mark’s rescue. This time, Eduardo won’t leave Mark to face the wolves alone.

Luke halts his anxious pacing and smiles when he spots Eduardo. He leans against the metal wall opposite Mark and tilts his hip to the side, tapping his gun against his thigh. “Ah, Wardo. I see you finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

Eduardo aims his gun directly at Luke but shifts his gaze to Mark. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice soft and gentle, so insistent that the sound trembles slightly as it leaves his throat.

Mark angles his chin up and raises an eyebrow. He smirks, drawing the corner of his mouth up so a dimple appears on his left cheek. “I’m fine,” he says, much in the same way he tells Eduardo that yes, he ate lunch; yes, he went to sleep at a decent hour; yes, yes, yes, stop nagging me, Wardo.

Eduardo nods at Mark, a grateful smile flashing over his face (and he should have known Mark would never let himself be hurt; Mark has only allowed that once when Eduardo turned around in his chair, tearing his gaze away from the window and recited a number that should not have been as powerful as it was).

“Wardo, Wardo, Wardo. Are you ignoring me?” Luke interjects, forcing Eduardo to look away from Mark and angle his eyes to Luke.

Eduardo tilts his head and shrugs. “It’s not hard.”

Luke laughs, short and derisive. He lets his gun flop in a circle, flicking his wrist loosely until it points directly at Mark. “You should learn to mind your tongue.”

Eduardo swallows hard. “Let’s take it easy here, Luke.”

Luke purses his lips in mock thought. “Why don’t we start with you lowering your gun?”

“Don’t do it, Wardo,” Mark warns but Eduardo sends him a small smile, pleading with him to _trustmeonthis_.

Eduardo lowers his gun to the ground, clicking the safety back in place and raising his arms in surrender.

Luke motions his head backwards. “Kick it to me.”

Eduardo does as Luke asks.

Luke picks up the gun and smirks, emptying it of the ammunition before tossing it over his shoulder. “Very good, Wardo.”

“Why are you doing this? You can’t possibly hope to accomplish your goals by kidnapping Mark.”

Luke hems and lets the hand holding his gun flop again, laughing as Eduardo’s eyes zero in on its aim. “And what, pray tell, do you know of my goals? Are you a mind reader now, too? My, you must be tired, filling so many shoes. Spy, shareholder…lover.” He draws out the last word and smiles mockingly.

Eduardo ignores his taunts and presses for information. “How is kidnapping Mark and leading me here going to shut down Facebook?”

“You’ll never shut it down,” Mark supplies unhelpfully from the sidelines, anger and pride strong in his voice.

Luke glares at Mark and presses a finger to his lips. “Shh, Mr. Zuckerberg. This isn’t about you.”

“Sure,” Mark answers, eyes narrowed.

“You’re making it very difficult not to shoot you.”

“Oh really, should I apologize?”

“Mark, shut up,” Eduardo hisses, eager to take Luke’s attention off of Mark and back on him.

“No.”

Luke straightens his wrist and fires a shot before Eduardo can move. A bullet penetrates the metal container a foot above Mark’s head. “I would listen to your boyfriend if I were you.” 

Mark falls into a stunned silence, either from shock or from the panic on Eduardo’s face (or perhaps both, Eduardo isn’t really in a place to figure that out right now). Eduardo steps toward Luke but stops when Luke lowers his gun again to aim at Mark. “What do you want, Luke?”

“Oh, it’s simple, really,” he answers. “I want you to suffer.”

Eduardo blinks, confused and trying his best to get a handle on the situation. “What about Faceb—”

Luke rolls his eyes. “That was a job I took. It’s really the idiot recruiter’s thing, I just wanted the money.” He shrugs and pushes away from the wall, inching closer to Mark. “But what I really want, now, is to watch you burn. You see, I hate you. I hate your face and your suits and your hair and the stupid way you pronounce ‘tonight’. I hate that you came onto our team and destroyed the dynamic I spent years building. I hate your fucking _Star Wars_ jokes.”

“ _Star Wars_ jokes?” Mark asks.

Eduardo glances at Mark and shrugs, spreading his hands. “His name is Luke Walker, how is that my fault?”

Luke lets out a frustrated yell. “You’re fucking doing it again. You’re making light in a fucking terrible situation. I _hate_ you so much.” Luke takes a deep breath and appears to regain his composure, though it is teetering on the edge of insanity now, his movements quick and jerky. “So when the opportunity presented itself, I thought I’d take my revenge.”

Eduardo takes slow, even breaths and tries to figure out a strategy. Luke is falling off into insanity and irrational thought, he knows he doesn’t have much longer before the ex-agent can’t be reasoned with. He holds up his hands. “Alright. So here I am. I’m here, you don’t need Mark. Let him go.”

“Wardo,” Mark growls, disapproval and stubbornness heavy in his tone and the narrowing of his eyes.

Eduardo ignores him and keeps his gaze on Luke. “Let Mark go.”

Luke smiles. “No.”

“Please.”

“No,” Mark repeats, scowling at Eduardo (a scowl that promises a lot of Words when they’re out of this, which Eduardo will gladly sit through with a smile on his fucking face if it means they _get through this_ ).

Luke clicks his tongue and tilts his head. “I have to agree with your boyfriend over there. It’s much more fun seeing you panic over something outside of your control.”

Eduardo’s eyes widen in fear until he sees Harold, silently creeping above them, inching his way to where Luke stands. Eduardo must have let relief show in his expression briefly, because Luke peers up and swears when he sees Harold. He fires a shot at the director but misses. Harold leaps down and tackles Luke, knocking his gun out of his hand toward Eduardo. Eduardo scoops it up and dashes to Mark, pulling a knife free and cutting through the plastic binding Mark’s hands.

“You’re a fucking idiot, what the _fuck_ were you thinking,” Mark scowls at him even as his eyes light in relief and gratitude and something far more meaningful (something like love made up of blue and grey and flecks of green in Mark’s eyes).

Eduardo just grins and lets Mark grab the knife once his hands are free, working on the plastic at his ankles. He wants to reach up and wrap his hands around the back of Mark’s neck, wants to run his fingers up into the curls that sit atop his head and pull him closer. He wants to press his lips to Mark’s, feel the cool pressure that spikes passion through his blood and changes the rhythm of his heart. He wants to do any number of things but he cannot because out of the corner of his eye he sees Luke, still pinned and wrestling with Harold, angle Harold’s gun toward them, toward _Mark_. Before he can even think (but thoughts are highly overrated, hasn’t he learnt that by now?), before he can tell his body to move (his mind is slow and stuck in inertia when action is needed most, resisting, resisting, resisting for no other reason than fear that disguises itself as pride), before Mark can even finish cutting through the plastic that still binds his feet (a second or two and they could be on their feet, racing to safety, to the life they planned, to slow Monday mornings and movie nights on Wednesday, and hours spent under the sheets of their bed, tracing words that cannot be said onto skin through lips and hands and soft puffs of breath), before any of that, Eduardo grabs Mark’s shoulders and flings him away.

Mark slides across the floor just in time for Eduardo to hear the muffled sound of a bullet sent speeding through the silencer on Harold’s gun.

“What the fuck, Wardo?” Mark voices from a few feet away but Eduardo’s hearing isn’t working the way it should and his vision is starting to blur and all he can feel is deep panic to get Mark the _fuck_ out and a thousand heartbeats at the end of every nerve.

He tries to tell Mark to get out but his breath comes out wheezing and heavy. He tries again but finds he can’t breathe, not like he’s supposed to.

“Wardo?” It’s Mark’s voice but Eduardo has a hard time focusing on his face or why it’s so close to his own now. “Fuck, fuck, Wardo.”

“What the fuck is going on?” It’s Sabrina, voice tinny and muffled through his cell phone. Eduardo wants to laugh because he forgot she had been on speaker phone, but it comes out as a panting gasp.

“Wardo, we’re gonna get you fixed up, okay? You’re going to be okay. Wardo!” Mark presses his hands against Eduardo’s stomach and Eduardo’s eyes go wide with realization and pain.

_Oh_ , he thinks.

“Zuckerberg, you better tell me what the fuck is happening,” Sabrina demands.

“Wardo’s been shot!” he snaps into the phone.

Sabrina sucks in a breath and Eduardo thinks he hears Dave murmur something but it’s Yolanda’s voice that comes through the phone. “Is he moaning that he’s dying? Don’t worry about it, he does that all the time.”

Mark’s eyes are huge and wide with the strongest terror Eduardo has seen, piercing blue shining with tears that threaten to escape at any moment. Eduardo wants to wipe them from his eyes, wipe away the terror and panic and dark fear that permeates Mark’s features. “You’re not going to die,” Mark commands, pressing his whole weight into Eduardo’s wounds to stop the profuse bleeding.

But that’s a lie and Eduardo knows he’s slipping away, breath choking through lungs that no longer fight to expand. He’s dying and for once he isn’t terrified of it (visions of his life don’t pass through his mind and he realizes that he doesn’t even need that night in the grocery store to give him peace in his final moments. Because Mark is here and always has been, in his heart and pumping through his veins, in his every breath and smile and tear, it’s always been Mark, Mark, _Mark_. He sends silent thanks to the universe for allowing him this beautiful piece of sunlight before he ends his days). He glances to Harold and smiles to see that Luke is contained, knocked unconscious when he wasn’t paying attention and Harold is speaking rapidly into his phone, ordering an ambulance (but it’ll be too late, much too late. He’s in too much pain with too little breath and there’s stark red blood pooling around Eduardo’s body, seeping into Mark’s pants where he kneels, as if even his blood is returning to his point of origin). He tries to reach his hand to Mark’s cheek but he can’t find the strength. Instead he closes his eyes and says, “I’m not dying,” the lie soft and soothing.

Mark smiles—panicky and thin but still a smile—until Yolanda chokes out a breath and says, “Wardo?”

“Where was he shot, Zuckerberg?” Sabrina asks, fear making her voice low and still.

“Why isn’t he saying he’s dying? He should be complaining loudly. Rina, Rina, he’s—” Dave’s voice is getting stronger.

“Saverin, don’t you fucking die!” Sabrina yells but Eduardo can’t find the strength to focus on the phone.

He contorts his lips into what he hopes is a smile. “Mark,” he whispers and has to pause to draw in more breath, shallow and intensifying the pain that centers at his stomach.

“Shut up, Wardo. You’re not giving me your dying words because you’re _not dying_. I’m not going back to that. I’m not going to back a life without you. Eduardo!”

“Mark,” he tries again, vision blackening at the edges and he has to fight to keep his eyes open, losing the battle quickly. He doesn’t know what he wants to say (to say he loves Mark one last time, to leave him with something that will bring him peace, to thank him). He doesn’t know and he never will because he slips into a dark unknown (spots of black and white and everything in-between) with Mark’s name on his lips.

&&&

When his eyes flutter open, he’s greeted with blinding white (or maybe he’s blind and that’s what it looks like? He always thought it’d be pitch black) and he immediately shuts his eyes to block out the intense source of pain. It takes him a couple seconds of deep breathing to realize the pain is not from the light but from his stomach and an intense stiffness in his limbs. He groans and refuses to open his eyes (just in case he was wrong about the pain-light).

“He’s awake.”

Eduardo’s breath hitches when he feels the hand—a hand that he only now realizes has been holding his own—tighten (warm and strong and as familiar as his own), Mark’s thumb brushing up to skim his wrist.

“Wardo,” Mark says. It’s not a question, not an inquiry to see if he’s awake. It’s a command (open your fucking eyes, I’m so mad at you right now).

Eduardo smiles, small and thin, but he peeks his eyelids open. “Mark,” he croaks, as if finishing the last thought he had when he was dying. Oh yeah, he was dying. Why isn’t he dead? “Why am I not dead?”

“Because idiots never die, you asshole.” It’s Sabrina and Eduardo turns his head slightly to peek at her. She’s glaring at him, arms folded and great pain promised in her eyes.

“Hello,” he smiles before turning back to Mark. “Is everyone here?”

“What? Wardo’s awake and no one got me?” Dustin’s sudden entrance answers Eduardo’s question. “I knew it, I told you to tell me when he woke uppppp.” Dustin bustles through the room until he reaches Eduardo’s bedside, opposite Mark. He grins and pats Eduardo’s shoulder with his free hand. “Hi Wardo. Don’t die again, alright? Mark’s been impossible.” He sets down a tray of coffee on the nightstand and glares around the room. “And no one gets coffee because you all broke your promise. These belong to me now.”

“You’re not going to drink six cups of coffee.” Sabrina glares at him, peering at the coffee with quiet longing.

“Please don’t challenge him on this,” Chris sighs, rubbing his brow.

“I’m not talking to you, Chris. You should have _told me_ that Wardo was up. I’m drinking yours first.”

Yolanda raises her hand. “I texted you.”

Dustin cocks his head and pulls out his phone. He smiles and hands her a large cup that Eduardo knows is hot chocolate. Yolanda grins and grabs the cup, eagerly sipping the whipped cream. Sabrina tries to reach around Dustin but he bats her hand away. “No!”

“For fuck’s sake, give me my fucking coffee, Moskovitz.”

“Nooooooooo.”

Eduardo chuckles, quiet and weak and turns back to Mark. He tightens his fingers against Mark’s with as much strength as he can muster. “You okay?”

Mark holds his gaze before closing his eyes, a pained expression overtaking his face. He buries his head on their joined hands and presses his lips to Eduardo’s wrist.

Eduardo’s eyes widen and he brings his other hand over to gently stroke through Mark’s hair. “Mark?”

“I thought I lost you.”

“I know.”

“I thought I _lost_ you.” He peers up, and Eduardo can see the sleeplessness and dread and worry etched in every hollow, every dip and curve of his face.

Eduardo closes his eyes briefly and swallows. “I’m not sorry.”

Mark bites his lip and sighs. “I know.”

“You guys are so fucked up,” Yolanda voices, upper lip coated in whipped cream that she’s currently stealing from all the mochas and lattes Dustin refuses to pass around.

“Can everyone stop swearing for a minute?” Dave pleads, voice a little desperate. “There could be children around, you know.”

Sabrina rolls her eyes at him. “It’s a hospital, not a school.”

“Children are not unheard of in public hospitals.”

Eduardo smiles and leans his head closer to Mark. “Love you.”

Mark smirks and presses his lips to Eduardo’s cheek. “Yeah.”

It is quickly determined that there are far too many people in Eduardo’s hospital room and a nurse comes around to evict the majority of them. They take turns visiting and entertaining him. Sabrina fills him in on the end of the mission (Ned and Luke have been taken into custody and the Twitter team finally unmasked their mole. The agency is tracking the instigators of the failed internet plot and has a team on the case, with hopefully less drama and more diligent work, or so Harold says when he drops by to debrief Eduardo. Eduardo asks for his laser back but Harold replies it was never his and is owned by the government of the United States. Eduardo interprets this as a clear indication that Harold is playing Jedi Master with it in private).

Team Saverin is officially on leave and it’s making Sabrina antsy. Dave, on the other hand, seems more relaxed, smiling and giggling more than he has in a long while. Yolanda is completely unaffected because she hardly realizes when they are on a mission, let alone off of one.

The nurses tried to evict Mark from Eduardo’s room several times on the first night but Mark is terrifying and stubborn and they’ve since learned to let him be. Eduardo manages to convince Mark to leave for brief intervals to grab them something to eat or take a shower but he’s secretly quite pleased and relieved that Mark stays with him most of the time (and at night, if Mark slips out of his chair and slides under the covers with Eduardo, well, no one really needs to know about that, do they?).

It’s on the fifth day since he awoke that Harold arrives with his boss, the older woman with sharp eyes and a sharper mind that sent him to Facebook in the first place. She smiles briefly, a polite attempt at civility. “Good afternoon, Mr. Saverin.” She glances to Mark and nods. “Mr. Zuckerberg.”

Mark raises his eyes from his laptop and sweeps his eyes over the intruders. His hands still and he tilts his head. “Hello.” It is a cold greeting, civil but rife with distrust.

Eduardo bites his tongue to keep from calling her Madame Director. He nods instead. “Good day.”

The woman positions herself in a chair close to Eduardo’s bed but not so close that she can reach it. “Perhaps we could have a word. Alone.” She glances over to Mark pointedly.

“No,” Mark answers quickly, lowering his laptop monitor until it clicks shut.

“It wasn’t really a request.”

“And my answer wasn’t really negotiable.”

“Mark,” Eduardo intercedes. He sits up straighter in his bed and hopes his eyes are as pleading as he intends them to be. “I don’t barge into your meetings.”

“Facebook never tried to kill me.”

“That’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” the woman muses, scanning idly through her phone while she waits for them to finish their conversation.

Mark glares at her but Eduardo clears his throat and frowns at Mark. “Give us five minutes, Mark.”

Mark narrows his eyes, shifting them from Eduardo, to the woman, and back to Eduardo. Finally he nods, short and stilted. He tucks his laptop under his arm and stands. “Five minutes.”

Eduardo smiles and watches him leave before turning his attention back on the woman. She turns over her shoulder and waves her hand dismissively at Harold. “Be a dear and fetch me some coffee, Harold.”

Harold blinks and frowns. “I’m not a gofer.”

“And you’re not part of this meeting.” She waves at him again. “Coffee. And some tea for Mr. Saverin.” She glances at Eduardo. “Do you like tea?” Before he can answer, she turns back to Harold. “Tea and coffee.”

Harold sighs but leaves, muttering that he has two Masters Degrees.

Once Harold closes the door behind him, the woman leans over and tosses a file into Eduardo’s lap. “Your new mission.”

Eduardo drops his jaw and stares at her. “But I’m—I’m still recovering.”

She shrugs. “You can start researching.”

He pushes the folder aside and leans closer to her. “Look, I tried to do it before but things got complicated. I’m resigning—”

“I know. Your resignation has already been processed. You’re officially unemployed.”

Eduardo furrows his brow and tries to understand just what is happening. “Then—”

“You are no longer an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. You are in no way, shape, or form, a part of the United States government.”

Understanding dawns on Eduardo and he shifts the file back to his lap, opening it tentatively. “Is the target protected?”

“By several immunity agreements.”

Eduardo nods and glances through a few pages in the thick file. “And my team?”

“Will be reassigned.” He flicks his eyes up to the woman. She shrugs. “They would be regardless. You _have_ resigned.”

He swallows but nods. It’s a consequence that cannot be avoided. He sighs and closes the file. “I’m sorry, but I’ve decided this was my last mission. I’m done and moving on with my life.”

“You and I both know you’ll never be done.” She shifts back into her chair and smiles when she sees doubt flicker through Eduardo’s eyes. “It’s in our blood.”

She is right; the adrenaline rush, the addiction to stealth and adventure and power that came with that life pumped through his veins, bringing nourishment as essential as the oxygen his blood carried (but so was the steady drum of _markmarkmark_ that beat from his heart, the force that kept blood flowing and streaming and coursing through his body). He’s about to decline again when he glances down and catches sight of a list of the target’s alias. His mouth turns dry and he doesn’t remember how to blink.

“He’s a monster that’s been untouchable for years,” she continues, then lowers her voice and adds, “I believe you’ve been acquainted with him.”

He nods, remembers beautiful, hot days in Brazil, running through the fields with his neighbors, giggling and free and without a care in the world. He remembers his best friend, Manoel, his smile wide and imperfect because he had just lost his front teeth. He remembers Manoel’s funeral, the casket small, too small (a casket shouldn’t be that small, there should never be a need for that). He remembers that night, his father’s ashen face, remembers how his hands ripped the offending piece of paper he had just received into a thousand little pieces (with letters and words and Eduardo’s name scrawled in harsh black ink, a threat he couldn’t comprehend but still seized his heart in its cold grip). They left for America the next month, leaving behind the only life he had ever known (and the innocence that was taken from it too soon).

“You will not receive any help from the CIA. You will have to act fully and completely as a free agent. Do you understand? You will be off the grid.”

“Why me?”

“You’re not afraid to go against all the rules. And you’ve proven you can handle even the most stressful of…personal issues.”

Eduardo blinks and he stares at her. “That’s why you assigned me to the Facebook mission?”

“Everything I do has a purpose.” She smiles. “You handled it. Not well, mind you, but successfully.”

They remain silent before Eduardo asks, “And if I decline the mission?”

She shrugs. “It’s your choice.” She stands and walks up to his bedside, placing a hand on the file and flipping it to the target’s latest crimes. “But I think you’d regret it.”

Eduardo swallows and nods. She’s right.

&&&

When Mark returns, the room is empty save for Eduardo. He tucks the file under his sheet and watches Mark settle back in the chair right at his bedside. Mark places his newly acquired can of Red Bull on the nightstand and smiles at Eduardo, reaching to open his laptop. Eduardo doesn’t smile back and drops his gaze to the hands in his lap.

“They offered me another mission.”

Mark’s hand stills and he keeps his eyes on his computer. “You said no.” It’s small and hopeful and breaks Eduardo’s heart (half beats of ma—rk—ma—rk—ma—rk, painful against his ribs, his lungs).

“I accepted.”

Mark’s eyes flick to Eduardo, his expression dark. “They can’t make you go.”

“I want to.”

“You’re leaving me again? Abandoning, abandoning _us_?” His voice is harsh and cold with accusation.

“Mark,” Eduardo starts and fists his fingers into the sheets beneath him to remain calm, to be the voice of reason here. He doesn’t want to argue, doesn’t want to get into this again. He just wants Mark to see, for once, what he needs.

“No, we had an agreement. You were supposed to quit.”

“I did quit. Mark, they have no one else.”

“They can fucking find someone else.”

“I don’t want them to. This is my assignment, this is for _me_ to avenge.” Eduardo holds Mark’s eyes, steel underlying in his voice and the way he holds his shoulders. Mark tilts his head and his face remains stormy but he says nothing, so Eduardo takes a deep breath. “I’m not leaving you, Mark. I never left you—”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t come out to California. I asked you—begged you—”

“I never _left_ you, Mark. I was always coming back to you.” He softens his hold on the sheets beneath him and stares at Mark, every wall and barrier and shred of false pride broken down until it’s just him, just Eduardo, asking, pleading, demanding Mark to not look away this time, see it from my eyes this time, please. “Not everything can go at your pace.”

It seems to work because Mark looks stricken. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth and asks, “How long?”

“I don’t know,” and he wishes he did, wishes he could give Mark a timeline, wishes he could give Mark the world (or at least their world, this perfect little blend of dreams and love and everything they’ve ever been together. But life isn’t dreams and he has business he knew still stabbed through his gut, poisoning his blood against love and hope and the steady _markmarkmark_ ).

Mark nods and blinks rapidly, breaking away to look out the window, stubborn. “You’ll come back?”

Eduardo closes his eyes and nods. “Always, Mark. Always.”

&&&

They spend whatever time they can together as Eduardo heals, quicker than Mark would have liked. They make up a story about Eduardo visiting his parents and throw one last bon voyage party. No one but Mark knows where Eduardo is truly heading off to and they manage to keep the façade up until night wanes into morning.

In the first awakenings of dawn, Mark presses insistent kisses into Eduardo’s skin, marking him, claiming him, coding a map back to him, to them (so deep that it resonates through his muscle and into his bone, a light shiver that reminds him this is where he _belongs_ ). Eduardo returns the favor, etching lines and scratches with his nails in every dip and plateau of Mark’s back, his stomach, his thighs, his calves, his neck. It is sweet and bitter and desperate and it permeates his thoughts even when he boards his plane, even when he sets foot on Brazilian soil (a strange land he once called home).

He loses himself in research and intelligence collecting and then he slips into his mask and he stalks his prey. It’s intoxicating and dangerous and rewards him with fresh air in his lungs and a mind that races with possibilities (but in the quiet moments, his mask slips and his heart reminds him of what he left behind and all he has to fight for, to come back to).

Yolanda quits the CIA soon after she discovers Eduardo’s deceit. She tracks him down and offers to join him, but he declines and asks only that she deliver a stack of letters to Mark. She agrees but leaves him her new number in case (and calls him an idiot several times in ten different languages). He sees her name appear in the paper six months later; she wrote a children’s picture book about a little girl who wants to become a walrus (she think it would make a fantastic Pixar film. No one agrees except Dustin, according to her emails).

Sabrina is promoted to team leader but quickly advances further, taking Ned’s old job. He spots her one day in downtown São Paulo, when he’s deep undercover (he infiltrated the target’s group of assassins but he’s still working his way to the top). She smiles at him and stretches her neck. He grins when he sees a glimpse of the family necklace she still wears. He keeps his tucked under his shirt collar and scratches his neck to indicate to her yes, he’s wearing it. She bows her head and looks away, heading in the opposite direction.

He doesn’t see Dave but receives a weekly email from him, like clockwork. Dave left the CIA three months after Eduardo did, to work for the MI5 in Great Britain. Sabrina swears she will never forgive him for jumping ship but Dave seems happier, more relaxed (if the boy can relax).

He reads emails from Chris and Dustin and reads about them in the news (Chris’s smiling face appears quite often on the business sections of the newspapers, and frequently in the World News section, taking on several more causes than he had in previous years). Time Magazine interviews Mark and asks him why he thinks Facebook is so popular. Mark has answered this question innumerable times before but this time his response is different.

“Because you never really lose anyone. Whether they’re still next door or they move oceans away, Facebook is a center where we can stay connected. We don’t have to lose our bonds, but we can grow and mature and stay tied to those we care for. And one day, the ones we care about most will come back.”

Eduardo cuts the interview out and keeps it in the breast pocket of his button-up shirts, over the left side of his ribs where his heart repeats the words back to him.

It takes a year to reach the target and another three months to get close enough to stop him. But Eduardo is determined and he can sense freedom is near (he can sense home, and pizza on Friday nights and the strange second-hand taste of Red Bull on his tongue when Mark crawls into bed at absurd hours of the night).

One year, four months, and seventeen days after he last kissed Mark, Eduardo makes his first kill (not an assassination or casualty of the mission or any directive given to him by people he doesn’t know and never will. It’s a kill, backed by revenge and justice and executed solely according to Eduardo). He knows with a deep certainty that it will be his last (for this is the life he once loved and cherished, the life that brought him through the darkest period of his existence and dragged him back into it. It was the life he will always be grateful for, but it isn’t his life anymore. He’s ready to move on, for good).

He takes a day to visit Manoel’s grave and place flowers over the tombstone, whispering a silent prayer (“The monster breathes no more,” he tells Manoel and smiles).

He arrives in Palo Alto before the next sunset and heads straight to Facebook (because Facebook has become synonymous with Mark, and Mark has always meant _home_ ). He sneaks past security and manages to avoid Chris and Dustin (as much as he misses them and wants to catch up, his heart is beating faster and faster, pushing him closer to only _markmarkmark_ ). The office is still relatively busy, and programmers are engrossed in their code, sounds of typing and the crisp _click_ of cans opening flood his ears. He can’t help but smile with pride as he surveys Facebook (this thing, this entity that was born from Mark and Dustin and Chris and _him_ ).

Mark’s office door is slightly ajar. He leans against the frame and raps it with a knuckle. His breath shudders out and that space just to the left under his ribs stops thumping when Mark’s head jerks up and his hands stop completely. Mark’s eyes (brilliant blue and deep and powerful and filled with only _wardowardowardo_ ) widen and a grin sweeps across his lips.

“You’re back,” Mark breathes.

Eduardo licks his lips and finds his heart beating again, a familiar rhythm, a melody he’s loved and hated and tried to deny but that consistently hums under his skin, unchanging. “Always, Mark. Always.”

The End


	3. My Breath for a Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda to You Only Live Twice (Unless You're Facebook. Then You Live Forever). Takes place from Mark's POV after the depositions and before Eduardo comes back to Facebook.

In the beginning, Mark is too busy to miss Eduardo (it’s totally not that he’s still upset. Because he’s not. He was never upset. Mark doesn’t feel that way about Eduardo, okay?). He signs the settlement papers with a quick stroke of his pen, a tradition of ink on parchment repeated for centuries, the irony not lost on him. He lives on the internet—the _world_ lives on the internet—but Wardo is always pulling him back to Earth, to life, to circles of people who never welcomed him, to places he never belonged (but Wardo doesn’t belong there, either. Wardo doesn’t belong to frat parties or Wallstreet. And Wardo doesn’t belong to the internet and the new age of living. Wardo is a force all on his own, like the weather he loves to document, an autobiography, a prediction more accurate than any crystal ball. Wardo is that little piece of magic that reminds you there is power beyond yourself, power you can’t control despite all the walls you put up and all the enticements to bring a sunny day, give us a little rain, warm up, cool down, snow, don’t snow, I need you, please don’t tell him I said that, I won’t go back to that, why aren’t you _here_?).

So Mark doesn’t think about Eduardo at first because he’s too busy building the most life-changing phenomenon this world has ever seen. He’s too busy gaining three hundred million friends, too busy having dinner with diplomats and ambassadors and presidents and _Bill Gates and Steve fucking Jobs_. And when sometimes he does find he’s a little bit nostalgic, he hosts a hackathon or he lets Dustin off his leash and watches the fun (and chaos) that follows (Dustin insists fun and chaos are the same word anyway. He has an entire spiel that follows the etymology of _fun_ down to _cheat_ and on to _chance_ and after about three minutes Mark stops listening because it’s all in Dustin-logic. And Dustin-logic also states that unicorns exist, or at least they did during the dinosaur age, and probably co-habitated with leprechauns or something equally ridiculous and magical and really, he has more important issues to deal with, like does Dustin ever really do any work and should they seek professional help to fix his brain?).

But sometimes (very rarely, of course), when it’s quiet at night and the latest update has been launched without a hitch, when the party is over and he’s sitting in his office illuminated only by the bluish glow of his laptop screen, he feels like he can’t breathe. He’s pulling in oxygen and exhaling it just fine, physically. He knows that. But that doesn’t stop the feeling that he can’t draw in a proper breath.

In-in-inhale.

He pulls up Eduardo’s Facebook page.

Hold. Hold. Hold.

He pulls up Eduardo’s Facebook page which hasn’t changed since even before the lawsuit, so it doesn’t do Mark any good anyway.

Hold. Hold. Hold. He can’t release, the oxygen is gone and he’s starting to suffocate in carbon dioxide.

His page is a skeleton at best and there are no new photos, no status updates, no events, nothing.

In-in-inhale, he needs more oxygen but there’s no more room for it. In-in-in—

So Mark does what any good, logical, not-missing-his-best-friend-ever CEO would do. He calls Chris.

He calls Chris because Chris went back to Harvard and yes, before anyone even dares to ask, it’s _way_ different from when Eduardo wanted to stay at school. Chris is in public relations so it makes sense for him to finish his degree. Wardo should have been there because Wardo was his CFO (Wardo was _his_ but he wasn’t _there_. Which meant Wardo _wasn’t_ his.

CFO, that is).

So he calls Chris and demands a status update on Wardo. And maybe his course list.

And maybe the names of some of his new friends.

And Facebook pages.

And social security numbers.

You know, normal chit-chat type of questions.

And Chris is hesitant with the information he gives Mark because Chris is still friends with both of them (well, maybe acquaintances with Wardo now, but Mark has the feeling Chris is trying to work on that and telling someone’s ex-best friend everything about that person is probably not a very productive course of action when attempting to get on said someone’s good side). But Mark is sharp (no shit, he created an entire world with no physical boundaries) and knows Chris almost as well as himself. Chris tells Mark more in what he doesn’t say than what he does, and soon Mark can exhale (short, painful spurts of air puncturing his lungs in the rush to leave his body).

And that’s enough. That’s enough for a while, even though his breathing still stutters at best (and if any doctor could fix it, he would give them half his fortune but they can’t because how is he supposed to breathe properly when the weather has gone away?).

&&&

Eduardo doesn’t attend the first few shareholders’ meetings. And despite publically insisting that he barely notices, Mark is actually quite disturbed about it. Because Wardo is a businessman, Wardo knows how important it is to show up, if only to say “hey, I have my eye on this company, I’m a _shareholder_ , you’re accountable to me” (which Mark generally and vehemently disagrees with, except maybe not with Wardo. He thinks he could be accountable to Wardo. It doesn’t seem so very bad).

So when Wardo doesn’t show up, that leads Mark to the only logical conclusion: Wardo hates Mark more than he cares about business (and it cuts, deep and piercing and invisible, in places he hides in dark shadows and isolated pockets because he doesn’t want anyone to comfort him, to _touch_ those injuries. Those scars belong to Wardo as much as they belong to Mark, and he shudders at the thought that someone else would be privy to all they had. And all they didn’t, and all they never will, and everything they could have in some other life he never thought he wanted).

And he can’t breathe again.

Ex-ex-exhale.

He glances across the long table to an empty chair, an empty chair designated for Wardo (haunting in its blatant inanimation, accusing him with silence, with normality, with lack and loss and that should have been Wardo there, Wardo should have been here, where is he, what is happening, why can’t they have everything they wanted?).

Ex-ex-exhale.

(They used to be kings. Kings of the new world, so happy and bold and young enough to be immortal. They used to be kings, and even though their kingdoms flourish, they lay in ruins.)

Ex-ex-e—There’s nothing left in his lungs, there’s a vacuum in his chest, pulling oxygen from his blood because he can’t stop forcing air and air and then nothing out of his body.

This time he can’t call Chris because Chris is here and he’s running the public relations and Wardo has moved half way across the world (but it feels more like he’s disappeared, no news articles, no traceable emails, hardly any activity on his bank accounts, like he knows Mark is watching, waiting. Like he knows and he wants to torture Mark. Which is ridiculous because he can still see Wardo’s eyes, huge and disbelieving, so much hurthurthurt reflecting in the forming moisture, and something else he’s still trying to analyze. Something dangerously close to ilovedyouican’tbelieveilovedyou. He’s tortured enough already).

Hold. Hold. Hold. He can’t breathe. He _can’t breathe_.

And then, two months after Wardo has disappeared, his chair is occupied in the next shareholders’ meeting and Mark can inhale, if only a little, and try to convince himself for that split second that yes, Wardo has legs that smooth and loves to wear business skirts to all his meetings.

&&&

Linda is Wardo’s representative at all the shareholder meetings and anything else that requires Wardo’s presence at Facebook. She’s in her mid-fifties, she’s sharp, has three cell phones going at once, and always answers a question with another question.

Mark hates her (well, he doesn’t hate anyone. But he strongly dislikes her and her stupid phones that she’s probably using to talk to Wardo and she never answers anything he wants to know when she _knows_ she could, even a little. She _knows_. And the worst part is that she knows he knows she knows. And she gets a little thrill out of it, Mark swears she does).

“How are you today Linda?”

“How are you Mark?” She started off calling him Mark. Not even a polite attempt at Mr. Zuckerberg. Straight to Mark like she wasn’t fooling around (Mark grudgingly appreciates her honesty and guts. He still doesn’t like her).

“I’m fine, thanks for asking. And you?”

“How was I last time?”

“I wouldn’t know, you never answer a question, even the most mundane ones.”

“How odd,” she answers and smiles blankly. “Mundane questions are my favorite kind.”

At least it wasn’t a question. Still, Mark scowls at her the entire meeting. And the meeting after that. And all the ones after that, and he realizes somehow it can breathe, just a little bit, when she comes around (like she’s somehow absorbed a little part of Wardo in their interactions and he can glean a fraction of that little part).

Still, his lungs stutter.

In-in-inhale.

Ex-ex-exhale.

A familiar rhythm, patterns and repetitions, until he forgets how it felt like before (before he traded his breath for a kingdom).

In-in-inhale.

He checks Wardo’s banking activity (suspiciously normal and routine) and what companies he’s investing in (internet up-and-comers, Wallstreet safe houses; all the worlds Wardo never belonged to at his beck and call—a storm, a drought, a calm—all within his hands. Mark wonders if Wardo knows just how powerful he is).

Ex-ex-exhale.

(If he had the chance. If he was ever given the chance, he would tell him.)

In-in-inhale.

(But Wardo never listened to a word Mark said. Wardo has his own destructive thoughts and untruths whirling around in his head. Wardo never _listens_.)

Ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-exhale.

(Never listened, never heard what Mark was trying to say.)

Hold. Hold. Hold. He can’t breathe.

(When he gets the chance. He’ll show Wardo. Wardo never listens but Wardo has always _watched_. Wardo sees more than anyone will ever know.)

In-in-inhale.

(Mark will show him. If he gets the chance.)

Ex-ex-exhale.

(If.)

Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold.

&&&

Chris goes on vacation. He says he’s going to Australia but Mark knows his real destination is Singapore. Because Mark is just that perceptive (and also Dustin _cannot_ keep a secret, he’s like a five-year-old hyped up on sugar and the most illegal of drugs. It’s a times like these that Mark remembers why Dustin is so invaluable).

And Mark finds he can breathe a little better when Chris is away. In Singapore.

In-inhale.

Ex-exhale.

Because when he gets back, Chris will say more in what he doesn’t say and Mark will _know_ something about his best friend (former best friend.

In-in-in-inhale).

Except when Chris gets back, his lips are tight and his eyes worried even when he tries to smile and hand out little presents for the office.

And Mark knows something is wrong.

Ex-ex-ex-ex-exhale.

Mark _knows_.

In-in-in-in-in-inhale.

Because Chris is joyful smiles and bright eyes and stern, scolding downturns of his lips and never, _never_ this lost, _blinded_ haze, unfocused eyes and worried sighs. Something is seriously wrong.

In-in-in-in-in—

Mark’s fingers fly over his laptop, pulling up anything and everything he can about Wardo. His bank accounts, his employees’ bank accounts, his travel history, his mother’s travel history, where he likes to shop, eat, dance, down to where he sends his dry cleaning. And that’s what gets him. There is no dry cleaning. All those suits, all those _fucking suits_ and not one trip to the dry cleaners documented on any credit card, on any bank statement.

In-in-in-in—

His lungs are expanding, intense pressure against his chest, shooting sharp bolts of pain through his body with each _thump thump thump_ of his heart (pulsing and alive and waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for what, pulsing for when, living for who?). He could die like this. He could die and he doesn’t even know what the fuck has happened to Wardo and he would never know (and there would be no chance. No chance).

In-in-in—

&&&

Linda arrives the next morning, despite any meeting. She shows up at his office at six in the morning, when the building is still quiet and the room is bright with dawning morning light. She takes a seat across from him and crosses her legs, professional and cold.

“My client would like you to stop digging into his activities.”

Mark frowns and tilts his head but remains silent.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “You need to stop, Mark.”

“I’ll tell you what I need to do. I need to finish my code for the next update. I need to attend several meetings over this week to ensure Facebook is getting the support it needs from its partners. I need to confer with my best programmers on their progress with the latest bug. I do not need to stop, Linda.”

In-in-in—

Linda narrows her eyes and shifts forward, a sudden change in the atmosphere piercing and deadly. “Stop, Mark. Mr. Saverin doesn’t need you poking into his private matters.”

“Where does he get his dry cleaning done?”

“Excuse me?”

Mark scowls. Fucking questions answering questions (she’s a menace to society, that’s what she is). “Dry cleaning. Where. Does. He. Frequent?”

Linda scoffs before her eyes hone in on Mark and suddenly she laughs (sharp and loud and slightly terrifying, if Mark’s being honest). “Are you in love with him?”

Ex-ex-exhale.

Mark jerks back and chokes. “What?”

Linda leans back in her chair and shakes her head, lazy and disbelieving. “And what a tragic love story it is. The lonely genius and the rogue in denial.” She stands and adjusts her clothing. “Good luck, Mark. You’re going to need it.” She waltzes out of his office without another word.

He still dislikes her. Even if his breathing returns to normal (the normal he’s come to know, the stuttering patterns of in-in-in, out-out-out).

He tries to remember his dislike of her when at the next shareholders’ meeting, she’s gone and some other body in a suit has replaced her spot in Wardo’s chair (someone new who communicates with Wardo through words on the internet, invisible ink devoid of emotion and personality and life. Mark’s breathing gets worse).

In-in-in-in-in-in—

&&&

He makes a game of it, trying to guess how long Wardo’s representatives will last.

Vincent lasts three meetings.

In-in-in-in-inhale.

Mary lasts only two.

Ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-exhale.

And so maybe he tortures them a little, so what? They’re being paid for this, and he wants to know what possessed Wardo to hire them in the first place (and maybe he wants to prove to Wardo that he should be _here_ , for the meetings, it’s your fucking company too, don’t you remember, why can’t you take what’s _yours_?).

Pyotr almost lasts long enough for Mark to consider him permanent (even though he’s the worst of them all), until Carl shows up.

Mark is starting to feel vaguely like a drill sergeant, training young executives on psychological immunity or something (it’s weird, okay, that’s just the feeling he gets and he’s never, ever telling Dustin).

Mark dislikes Carl, but not in the same way he disliked Linda. Carl is much too interested in Facebook. Carl gets “lost” in the hallways and talks to all the shareholders and asks the most bizarre questions. Carl fills notepads with an endless stream of handwriting (and it looks coded, too, which irritates Mark to no end because when he _does_ find the opportunity to flip through it, he can’t read a word).

Carl feels like those two CIA agents who came and asked him if they could monitor his site for a few months (to which he promptly replied that they could fuck off).

Carl feels completely and utterly disconnected from Wardo, and Mark can’t find any relief.

In-in-in-in-in-in-in-in-in-in-inhale.

And Wardo still isn’t here, where he needs to be.

Ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-ex-exhale.

And Mark’s kingdom is more than he could ever have imagined and yet still not enough (because what’s a kingdom without the sun, the rain, the wind? The storms and sunny days and muggy nights and thunder and snow and below freezing temperatures and everything he once had, he never had, he could have had).

Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold.

And it’s never going to get any better. He’ll never breathe normally again.

In and out and hold and irregular patterns and pressure against the left of his chest that waits, waits, waits for something he doesn’t know.

Until one day, when he’s walking to the shareholders’ meeting, Dustin by his side explaining how he beat his video game last night (hands and head and legs gesturing wildly and voice fluctuating with his own form of sound effects), and he opens the door (like it’s an ordinary day, like the world is the same as yesterday and will be the same tomorrow) and everything changes.

&&&

Wardo is there, in his chair (in the chair that has always belonged to Wardo, that chair that taunted him, accused him, berated him; it’s silent and content now), hair styled and suit fitted and eyes so large and so honest that Mark can’t make any sense out of the emotions (a jumble of words and memories and visions of the future they never had or haven’t had yet or will never see, he doesn’t know).

Wardo is here.

His breathing stops.

Wardo is _here_.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

There is Dustin, shaking him, trying to spur him into action. There are people, whispering (in that fake sort of way where everyone can hear it anyway so why bother whispering to begin with you cowards?). And there is Wardo, the world shining in his eyes (that world Mark has always wanted to touch but got lost along the way).

Inhale.

Wardo doesn’t look away, he keeps Mark’s gaze (equal parts defiance and vulnerability and one hundred percent _him_ ).

Exhale.

Mark can breathe.

end

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Chinese Translation] 花仅开两生，如幸为脸书，则恒久远](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12491088) by [knicco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knicco/pseuds/knicco)




End file.
